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THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 

PRESENTED  BY 

MRS.  WILLIAM  ASHWORTH 


FIVE  LITTLE  PLAYS 


FIVE  LITTLE  PLATS 


BY 

ALFRED    SUTRO 


BR  EN  TANO'S 

NEW   YORK 

1916 


These  plays  have  all  been  copyrighted  tv 
America  by  the  author's  agents,  Messrs.  Samuel 
French  Ltd,,  26  Southampton  Street,  Strand, 
to  whom  all  applications  for  production,  both 
in  England  and  Ameiica,  should  be  addressed 


First   Printed  March  1912 

Second  Impression   February  1913 

Ihird  Impression  January  1916 


Printed  by  Ballantyne,  H ANSON  &  Co.  Ltd. 

At  the  Ballantyne  Press 

London  and  Edinburgh 


U8  f  5" 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

THE  MAN  IN  THE  STALLS  1 

A  MARRIAGE  HAS  BEEN  ARRANGED  ....  33 

THE  MAN  ON  THE  KERB  55 

THE  OPEN  DOOR  77 

THE  BRACELET  99 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  STALLS 

A  PLAY  IN  ONE  ACT 


THE  PERRONS  OF  THE  PLAY 

Hector  Allen 
Elizabeth  Allen  (Betty) 
Walter  Cozens 


Thix  play  icas  pToducrd 

at   the   Palace  Thpatre 

on  Octoler  6,  1911 


THE  MAN  IN  IIIE  STALLS 

The  sitting-room  of  a  little  flat  in  Shafteahury  Avenue. 
At  hack  is  a  door  leading  to  the  dining-room — it 
is  open,  and  the  dinner-table  is  infidl  view  of  th.e 
audience^  To  the  extreme  right  is  another  door, 
leading  to  the  hall. 

The  place  is lyleasantly  and  pretlihj,  though  quite 
inexpensively,  furnished.  To  the  left,  at  angles 
with  the  distempered  wall,  is  a  hahy -grand  piano  ; 
the firejiilace,  in  which  afire  is  huming  merrily,  is 
on  the  sa7ne  side,  full  centre.  To  the  right  of  the 
door  leadijrg  to  the  dining-room  is  a  small  side- 
table,  on  v:hich  there  is  a  tray  with  decanter  and 
glasses  ;  in  front  of  this,  a  card. table,  open,  with 
two  packs  of  cards  on  it,  and  chairs  on  each  side. 
Another  table,  a  round  one,  is  in  the  centre  of  the 
room. — to  right  and  to  left  of  it  are  comfortable 
arTnchairs.  Against  the  right  wall  is  a  long  sofa  ; 
a'ove  it  hang  a  few  good  ivater-colours  and  engrav- 
ings ;  on  the  piano  and  the  table  there  are  flowers 
A  general  appearance  of  refinement  and  comfort 
pervades  the  room  ;  no  luxury,  but  evidence  every- 
where of  good  taste,  and  the  countless  feminini 
touches  that  mahi  a  room  homelike  and  pleasant. 


^  THE  MAN  IN  THE  STALLS 

Wli^n  the  curtain  rises,  Hector  Allen,  a 
youngish  man  of  forty,  with  an  attractive  intel- 
lectual face,  is  seen  standing  hy  the  dining-table 
in  the  inner  room,  draining  his  liqueur-glass,  with 
Walter  Cozens  to  the  right  of  him,  lighting  a 
cigarette.  Walter  is  a  few  years  younger  them 
his  friend,  moderately  good-looking,  with  fine,  curly 
hrown  hair  and  a  splendid  silky  m.ousiache.  His 
morning-clothes  are  conspicuously  well-cut — he  ia 
evidently  something  of  a  dandy  ;  Hector  wears  a 
rather  shabby  dress  suit,  his  boots  are  awkioard,  and 
his  tie  ready-made,  Bettt,  a  handsome  tfoman 
of  thirty,  wearing  a  ven'y  prretty  tea-gown,  is  talking 
to  the  maid  at  the  bach  of  the  dining-room. 

Hector  puts  doicn  his  glass  and  comes  into  the 
sitting-room,  followed  by  Walter.  Hector  i% 
puffing  at  a  short,  stumvy  little  black  cigar. 

Hector.  [Talking  as  he  comes  through,  continuing 
the  conversation — he  loalks  to  the  fireplace  and  stands 
with  his  hack  to  it.]  I  tell  you,  if  I'd  known  what  it 
meant,  I'd  never  have  taken  the  job !  Sounded  so 
fine,  to  be  reader  of  plays  for  the  Duke's  Theatre — 
adviser  to  the  great  Mr.  Honeyswill !  And  ther. — 
when  the  old  man  said  I  was  to  go  to  all  the  fii-st 
nights — why,  I  just  chortled  !  "  It's  the  first  nights 
that  show  you  the  grip  of  the  thing — that  teach  you 
most  " — he  said.  Teach  you  !  As  though  there  were 
anything  to  learn  1  Oh  my  stars  !  I  tell  you,  it's  a 
dog's  life  I 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  STALLS  7 

Walter.  [Sitting  to  left  of  the  round  table.]  I'd 
change  places  with  you,  sonny. 

Hector.  You  would,  eh  ?  That's  what  they  all 
Bay!  Four  new  plays  this  week,  my  lad — one 
yesterday,  one  to-day — another  to-morrow,  and  the 
night  after  !  All  day  long  I'm  reading  plays — and  1 
spend  my  nights  seeing  'em !  D'you  know  I  read 
about  two  thousand  a  jear  ?  Divide  two  thousand 
by  three  hundred  and  sixty  five.  A  dog's  life — that's 
what  it  is ! 

Walter.  Better  than  being  a  stockbroker's  clerk 
— you  believe  me  I 

Hector.  Is  it  ?  I  wish  you  could  have  a  turn  at 
it,  my  bonny  boy  !  Your  hair'd  go  grey,  like  mine ! 
And  look  here — what  are  the  plays  to-day  ?  They're 
either  so  chock-full  of  intellect  that  they  send  you  to 
sleep — or  they  reek  of  sentiment  till  you  yearn  for 
the  smell  of  a  cabbage ! 

Walter.  Well,  you've  the  change,  at  any  rate. 

Hector,  [Snorting.]  Change?  By  Jove,  give  me 
a  Punch  and  Judy  show  on  the  sands — or  performing 
dogs !  Plays — I'm  sick  of  'em !  And  look  here — 
the  one  I'm  off  to  to-night.  It's  adapted  from  the 
French — well,  we  know  what  that  means.  Husband, 
wife  and  mistress.  Or  wife,  husband,  lover.  That's 
what  a  French  play  meanSi  And  you  make  it 
English,  and  pass  the  Censor,  by  putting  the  lady  in 
a  mackintosh,  and  dumping  in  a  curate ! 

Betty".  [Co7ning  in,  and  closing  the  door  leading  to 
the  dining-room.']  You  ought  to  be  going,  Hector. 


8  THE  MAN  IN  THE  STALLS 

[She  stands  listening  for  a  moment,  then  goea 

through  the  other  door  into  the  hall. 
Hector.  [^Disregarding  her,  too  intent  on  his  theme.] 
And  I  tell  you,  of  the  two,  I  prefer  the  home-made 
stodge.  I'm  sick  of  the  eternal  triangle.  They 
always  do  the  same  thing.  Husband  strikes  attitudes 
— sometimes  he  strikes  the  lover.  The  lover  never 
stands  up  to  him — why  shouldn't  he?  He  would — in 
real  life.  [Betty  comes  back  vith  his  overcoat  and 
inujfflei — she  proceeds  affectionatelij  to  wrap  this  round 
his  neck,  avd  helps  him  on  with  his  coat,  he  talking  all 
the  time.]  He'd  say,  look  here,  you  go  to  Hell.  That's 
what  he'd  say — well,  there  you'd  have  a  situation. 
But  not  one  of  the  playwriting  chaps  dares  do  it. 
Why  not,  I  ask  you  ?  There  you'd  have  truth,  some- 
thing big.  But  no — they're  afraid — think  the  public 
won't  like  it.  The  husband's  got  to  down  the  lover 
— like  a  big  tom-cat  with  a  mouse — or  the  author'd 
have  to  sell  one  of  his  motor-cars !  That's  just  the 
fact  of  it ! 

Betty.  [LooJcing  at  the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece.] 
Twenty-five  past.  Hector. 

Hector.  [Cheerily.]  All  right,  my  lass,  I'm  off. 
By-bye,  Walter — keep  the  old  woman  company  for  a 
bit.  Good-bye,  sweetheart.  [He  kisses  her.]  Don't 
wait  up.     Now  for  the  drama.     Oh,  the  dog's  life  ! 

\He  goes,     Betty  waits  till  the  hall  door  has 

hanged,    then    she    sits    on    the  elbow   of 

Walter's  chair,  and  rests  her  head  on  his 

shoulder. 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  STALLS  9 

Betty.  [SoftlT/.]  Poor  Hector! 

Walter.  [Uiicomforiahly.]  .  .  .  Yes  .  .  . 

Betty,  Doesn't  it  make  you  feel  dreadful  when  he 
talks  liketliafc?  [She  kisses  him;  then  puts  her  arms 
round  his  neck,  draws  his  face  to  her,  avd  kisses  him 
cvjain,  on  tfi^  cheek.]     Doesn't  it? 

[She  nestles  contentedly  closer  to  him. 

Walter.  [Trying  to  edge  away.]  Well,  it  does. 
Yea. 

Betty.  [Di'eamily.]  I — like  it. 

Walter.  Betty! 

Betty,  Yes,  I  like  it.  I  don't  know  why.  I  sup- 
pose I'm  frightfully  wicked.  Or  the  danger  perhaps 
— I  don't  know. 

Walter.  [Ifaking  a  futile  effort  to  get  up.] 
Betty 

Betty.  [Tightening  her  arms  around  him^  Stop 
there,  and  don't  move.  How  smooth  your  chin  is — his 
scrapes.  Why  don't  husbands  shave  better  ?  Or  is  it 
that  the  forbidden  chin  is  always  smoother  ?  Poor 
old  Hector !  If  he  could  see  us  !  He  hasn't  a  suspi- 
cion. I  think  it's  lovely — really,  I  do.  He  leaves  us 
here  together,  night  after  night,  find  imigines  you're 
teaching  me  bridge. 

Walter.  [Restlessly.]  So  I  am.  Where  are  the 
cards  ? 

Betty.  [Caressing  him.]  Silly,  have  you  forgotten 
that  this  is  Tuesday — Maggie's  night  out?  She's 
gone — I   told  her  she  needn't   wait  to   clear  away. 


10         THE  MAN  IN  THE  STALLS 

We've  arranged  master's  supper.  Master !  YovJxe  mj 
master,  aren't  you  ? 

Walter.  ...  I  don't  know  what  I  am  .  .  . 

Betty.  Oh  yes  you  do — you're  my  boy.  Whom  I 
love.  There.'  \She  kisses  him  again,  full  on  the  lips.] 
That  was  a  nice  one,  wasn't  it?  Peor  old  Hector, 
sitting  in  his  stall — thinks  he's  so  woiiderful,  knows 
8uch-a.4ot !  Yes,  Maggie's  out — with  her  young  man, 
I  suppose.  The  world's  full  of  women,  with  their 
young  men — and  husbands  sitting  in  the  stalls.  .  .  . 
And  I  suppose  that's  how  it  always  has  been,  and 
always  will  be. 

Walter.  [Shifting  uneasily^  Don't,  Betty — I  don't 
like  it.     I  mean,  he  has  such  confidence  in  us. 

Betty.  Of  course  he  has.  And  quite  rightly. 
Aren't  you  his  oldest  friend  ? 

Walter.  [With  something  of  a  groan.]  I've  known 
him  since  I  was  seven. 

Betty.  The  first  man  he  introduced  me  to — his  best 
man  at  the  wedding — do  you  remember  coming  to  see 
us  during  the  honeymoon  ?     I  liked  you  then, 

Walter.  [Really  shocked.]  Betty  ! 

Betty.  I  did.  You  had  a  way  of  squeezing  my 
hand.  .  .  .  And  then  when  we  came  back  here.  You 
know  it  didn't  take  me  long  to  discover 

Walter.  [Protesting,]  I  scarcely  saw  you  the  first 
two  or  three  yeai'S ! 

Betty.  No — you  were  afraid.  Oh  I  thought  you  so 
silly  !  [He  suddenly  contrives  to  release  hiinself — gets  up, 
and  moves  to  the  card-table.]  Why,  what's  the  matter  ? 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  STALLS         11 

Walter.  [At  the  table,  with  his  back  to  her.]  I  hate 
hearing  you  talk  like  this. 

Betty.  Silly  boy  !  [She  rises,  and  fjoes  to  him  ;  he 
has  taken  a  cigarette  out  of  the  box  on  the  table,  and 
stands  th&re,  with  his  head  bent,  tapping  the  cigarette 
against  his  hand.]  Women  only  talk  "  like  this,"  as 
you  call  it,  to  their  lovers.  They  talk  "  like  that "  to 
their  husbands — and  that's  why  the  husbands  never 
know.  That's  why  the  husbands  are  always  sitting  in 
the  stalls,  looking  on.  [She  puts  her  arms  round  him 
again,]  Looking  and  not  seeing. 

[She  approaches  her  lips  to  his — he  almost  fret- 
fully unclasps  her  arms, 
Walter.  Betty — I  want  to  say  a — serious  word  .  .  . 
Betty,  [Looking  fondly  at  him.]  Well,  isn't  what 
I'm  saying  serious  ? 

Walter.  I'm  thirty-eight. 

Betty.  Yes.  I'm  only  thirty.  But  i'm  not  com- 
plaining. 

Walter.  Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you 

[He  stops. 
Betty.  What? 

[Walter  looks  at  her — tries  to  speak,  out 
cannot — then  he  breaks  away,  goes  acroi^H 
the  room  to  the  fireplace  and  stands  for  a 
moment  looking  into  the  fire.  She  has 
remained  where  she  was,  her  eyes  following 
him  wonderingly.  Suddenly  he  stamps  his 
foot  violently. 
Walter.  Damn  it !     DAMN  it ! 


12         THE  MAN  IN  THE  STALLS 

Betty.  [Moving  tovcards  him,  in  alarmj\  What's 
the  matter? 

"Walter.  \With  a  swift  turn  towards  /;er.]  I'm 
going  to  get  married. 

Betty.  \_Stonily,  stopping  by  the  round  tahle.'\ 
You  .  .  . 

Walter.  [Savagely.']  Going  to  get  married,  yes. 
Married,  married! 

\She  stands  there  and  doesn't  stir — doesn't 
speak  or  try  to  speak  ;  merely  stands  there, 
and  looks  at  him,  giving  no  sign.  Her 
silence  irritates  him  ;  he  becomes  more  andj 
more  violent,  as  though  to  give  himsdf 
courage. 

Walter.  You're  wonderful,  you  women — you  really 
are.  Always  contrive  to  make  us  seem  brutes,  or 
cowards !  I've  wanted  to  tell  you  this  a  dozen  times 
— I've  not  had  the  piuck.  Well,  to-day  I  must. 
Must,  do  you  hear  that  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  for  Heaven's  sake, 
say  something, 

Betty.  [Still  staring  helplessly  at  him.]  You  .  .  . 

Walter.  [Feverishly. "]  Yes,  I,  I !  Now  it's  out,  at 
least — it's  spoken  I  I  mean  to  get  married,  like  other 
men — fooled,  too,  I  daie  say,  like  the  others — at 
least  I  deserve  it !  But  I'm  tired,  I  tell  you — 
tired 

Betty.  Of  me? 

Walter.  Tired  of  the  life  I  lead — the  beastly, 
empty  rooms — the  meals  at  the  Club.  And  I'm 
thirty-eight — it's  now  or  never. 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  STATJ.S         13 

Betty.  [Slowli/.]  And  how  about — me  ? 

"Waltee.  You  ? 

Betty.  [Passionately.]  Yes,     Me.     Me ! 

Walter.  You  didn't  think  this  would  last  for  tj-.ev  ? 

Betty.  [N'odding  her  head.]  I  did — yes — I  did. 
Why  shouldn't  it? 

Walter.  [Working  himself  into  a/ury  again.]  Why? 
You  ask  that?  Why?  Oh  yes,  it's  all  right  for 
you — you've  your  home  and  your  husband — I'm  there 
as  an — annexe.  To  be  telephoned  to,  when  I'm 
wanted,  at  your  beck  and  call,  throw  over  everything, 
come  when  you  whistle.  And  it's  not  only  that — 
I  tell  you  it  makes  me  feel — horrid.  After  all,  he's 
my — friend. 

Betty.  He  has  been  that  always.  You  didn't  feel 
— horrid — before.  .  .  .  Who  is  she  ? 

Walter.  [Shortly,  as  he  turns  hack  to  the  fire.]  That 
doesn't  matter. 

Betty.  Yes,  it  does.     Who  ? 

Walter.  [Freifullij.]  Oh,  why  should  we 

Betty.  I  want  to  know — I'm  entitled  to  know, 

Walter.  [Still  with  his  hack  to  her,]  Mary  Gil- 
lingham. 

Betty.  Mary  Giilingham ! 

Walter.  [Firmly,  sioinging  round  to  her.]   Yes. 

Betty.  That  child,  that  chit  ol'  a  girl  1 

Walter.  She's  twenty-three. 

Betty.  Whom  I  introduced  you  to — ray  own 
friend  ? 

Walter.   '^Qr ambling,]  Vv'hat  has  that  to  do  with 


14         THE  MAN  IN  THE  STALLS 

it  ?  And  besides  .  .  .  [I/e  suddenly  changes  his  tone^ 
noticing  hoto  calm  she  has  become — he  takes  a  step 
towards  her,  and  stands  by  her  side,  at  the  back  of  the 
table  ;  his  voice  becomes  gentle  and  affectionate.^  But  I 
say,  really,  you're  taking  it  awfully  well — pluckily. 
I  knew  you  would — I  knew  I  was  an  ass  to  be  so — 
afraid,  .  .  .  And  look  here,  we'll  always  be  pals — the 
very  best  of  pals.  I'll  .  .  .  never  forget — never.  You 
may  be  quite  sure  ...  of  that.  I  want  to  get  married 
— I  do — have  a  home  of  my  own,  and  so  forth — but 
you'll  still  be — just  the  one  woman  I  really  have  loved 
— the  one  woman  in  my  life — to  whom  I  owe — 
everything. 

Betty.  [With  a  mirthless  laugh.']  Do  you  tell  all 
that — to  Mary  Gillingham  ? 

Walter.  [Pettishly,  as  he  moves  away,]  Do  I — don't 
be  so  absurd. 

Betty.  You  tell  her  she  is  the  only  girl  you  have 
loved. 

Walter.  [Moving  bach  to  the  fire,  with  his  hack  to 
her.]  I  tell  her — I  tell  her — what  does  it  matter  what 
I  tell  her  ?  And  one  girl  or  another — she  or  some  one 
else 

Betty.  But  you  haven't  answered  my  question — 
what's  to  become  of  me  ? 

Walter.  [Angrily,  facing  her.]  Become  of  you  ! 
Don't  talk  such  nonsense.  Becau.se  it  is — really  it  is. 
You'll  be  as  you  were.  And  Hector's  a  splendid  chap 
— and  after  all  we've  been  frightfully  wrong — treating 
him  infernally  badly — despicably.     Oh  yes,  we  have 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  STALLS         15 

— and  you  know  it.  Lord,  there've  been  niglitswhen 
I  have — but  never  mind  that — that's  all  over!  In 
future  we  can  look  him  in  the  face  without  feeling 
guilty — we  can— 

Betty.  [Quietly.]  You  can. 

Walter.  What  do  you  mean  ?  -^f^,^  Aa.  wt^<^ 

Betty,  F<n«  can,  because  of  this  girl.     Oh,  I  know,   -, 
of  course  !     You'll  come  here  three  or  four  times — 
then  you'll  drop  off — you'll  feel  I'm  not  quite  the 
woman  you  want  your  wife  to  know. 

Walter.  [IFi'^A  genuine  feeling,  as  he  impulsively 
steps  towards  her,]  Betty,  Betty,  what  sort  of  cad  do 
you  take  me  for?  What  sort  of  cad,  or  bounder? 
Haven't  I  told  you  I'd  never  forget — never  ?  And 
you  think  you'll  pass  out  of  my  life — that  I  want  you 
to  ?  Why,  good  Heaven,  I'll  be  your  best  friend  as 
long  as  I  live.  Friend — yes — what  I  always  should 
have  been — meant  to  be !  And  Hector.  Why,  Betty, 
I  tell  you,  merely  talking  to-night,  as  I've  done,  has 
made  me  feel — different — sort  of — lifted — a  load. 
Because  I've  always  had  it — somewhere  deep  down  in 
me — when  I've  thought  of — him. 

Betty.  [Calmly.']  Liar. 

Walter.  [Falling  hack.]  Betty  ! 

Betty.  Liar — yes.  Why  these  stupid,  silly  lies? 
•'  Always,  deep  down  in  me  !  "  Where  was  it,  t\n%. 
beautiful  feeling,  when  you  gai-joae  to  go  to  your 
rooms  ? 

Walter.  [Harshly.]  We  needn't 

Betty    I  liked  you — I've  said  that — I  liked  you 


16         THE  MAN  IN  THE  STALLS 

from  the  first.  But  I  was  straight  enough.  Liked 
you,  of  course — but  I  had  no  idea,  not  the  slightest. 
.  .  .  Thought  it  fun  to  play  the  fool,  flirt  just  a  bit. 
But  it  was  you,  you,  you  who 

Walter.  \Br taking  in  sulkily  and  stamping  his  foot.^ 
Never  mind  about  who  it  was. 

Betty.  [^Passionately.']  Never  mind  !     You  dare  ! 

Walter.  [Doggedly^^  Yes — I  dare.  And  look  hers 
— since  you  force  me  to  it — that's  all  rot — yes,  it  is 
— just  rot.  Just  as  you  like  it  now,  heaving  Hectoi 
ask  me  to  stop  with  you,  and  kissing  me  the  moment 
his  back  is  turned — so  you  met  me  halfway,  and  more 
than  halfway. 

Betty,  You  cur  ! 

Walter.  That's  what  a  woman  always  says,  when 
a  man  speaks  the  truth.  Because  it  is  the  truth — 
and  you  know  it.  "  The  way  I  squeezed  your  hand  ! '' 
D'you  think  I  meant  to  squeeze  it — hv*-w?«iy  !  Why, 
as  there's  a  Heaven  above  me,  you  were  as  sacred  to 
me — as  my  own  sister  ! 

Betty.  [Quietly,  as  she  sits,  to  right  of  the  table.] 
What  I'm  wondei^ing  is — you  see,  you're  the  only 
lover  I've  had — what  I  wonder  is,  when  a  man  breaks 
off,  tells  a  woman  he's  tired  of  her,  wants  to  get 
married — does  he  alioays  abuse  the  woman 

Walter.  [Sulkily,']  I  haven't 

Betty.  Degrade,  and  throw  mud  on,  the  love  she 
has  had  for  him  ? 

Walter.  [With  a  hitter  shrug.]  Love 

Betty.  [Passionately^  as   she   springs  to  her  feet.] 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  STALLS  17 
Love,  love,  ye??,  you — cruel  man  !  Love,  what  else  ? 
I  adore  you,  don't  you  know  that  ?  Live  for  you ! 
would  give  up  everything  in  the  world — everything, 
everything !  And  Walter,  Walter !  If  it's  only 
tliat — that  you  want  a  home — well,  let's  go  off 
together.  He'll  divorce  us — we  can  get  married. 
Don't  go  away,  and  leave  me  here,  alone  with  Lim  ! 
I  couldn't  stand  it — Walter,  I  couldn't,  I  couldn't! 
\She  goes  eagerly  tohim,funys  her  arms  round 
his  neck,  and  a  dry  sob  hursts  from  her. 

Walter,  [Very  gently.]  Betty,  Betty,  you've  been 
so  brave  .  .  .  Betty,  dear,  the  honid  things  I've  said 
were  only  to  mal^e  you  angiy,  to  make  you  feel  what 
a  brute  I  was,  how  well  you're  rid  of  me.  Oh,  I'm 
not  proud  of  myself !  But  look  here,  we  must  be 
sensible — we  must,  really,  .  .  .  You  know,  if  you 
were  divorced — if  I  were  the  co-respondent  in  a 
divorce  case — I'd  lose  my  berth,  get  the  sack 

Betty.  [Clinging  to  hird.]  We  could  go  to  Australia 
— anywhere 

Walter.  I've  no  money. 

Betty.  [Tri^A  a  sudden  movement,  raising  her  head 
and  leaving  him.]  And  Mary  Gillingham  has-J<^? 

Walter.  It's  not  for  her  money  that  I 

Betty.  [With  a  start.]  You  love  her? 

Walter.  [Dropping  his  head,  and  speaking  binder  his 
breath.]  ¥es. 

Betty.  [  Wringing  her  hands.]  Yon  do,  you  do? 

Walter.  Yes,  that's  the  truth — 1  do.     Oh,  Betty 

I'm  so  frightfully  sorry 

B 


18        THE  MAN  IN  THE  STALLS 

Bettt.  [With  a  groan.]  Then  you   don't  love   me 
any  more  .  .  . 

Walter.  It's  not  that.     But  you  see 

Betty.  [Moaning.]  You  don't,  you  don't ! 

[She  stands  there,  crushed,  overwhelmed,  dry- 
fyed,    broken  moans    escaping  from   Asr; 
^^,,4^  '  (suddenly  she  hears  a  key  turning  in  the  lock 
of  the  hall-door  *>'itside,  and  rushes  to  the 
card-table. 

Betty.  Hector !  Quick,  quick — the  cards ! 

[Vv  ALTER ^tes  to  the  table,  and  sits  by  her  side. 
He  seizes  one  pack  and  proceeds  to  shu£ie 
it,  she  is  dealing  with  the  other.     All  this 
takes  only  a  second.     Hector  coones  in — 
they  both  spring  up. 
Betty.  Hector !  You're  not  ill  ? 
Hector.  [Kissing  her.]  Play  postponed,  my  child — 
bit  of  luck  !     When  I  got  to  the  theatre  I  found  that 
the  actor-manager's  car  had  collided  with  a  cab  outside 
the  stage-door — he  was  thrown  through  the  window — 
there's  a  magnificent  exit  for  you  !  and  has  been  cut 
about  a  bit.    "i^othing  serious.     But  the  play's  post- 
poned for  a  week.     Bit  of  luck  ! 
Walter.  [Sitting.]  Not  for  him. 
Hector.  Oh  he  has  had  luck  enough — tons  of  it ! 
I'll  get  into  a  jacket — then  we'll  have  some  bridge, 
See  what  progress  you've  made,  Betty  ! 

[He  hurries  out,  and  closes  the  door, 
Betty.    [Producing  a  little  mirror  from  her  hag. 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  STALLS         19 

locking  into  it,  touching  her  AaiV.]-We  were  only  just 
An  time. 

Walter.  [Eagerly,  as  he  bends  across  the  table.] 
You're  splendid — you  are — splendid  ! 

Betty.  Yes.  All  very  nice  and  comfortable  for 
you — isn't  it  ?     [She  puts  the  mirror  back  into  the  bag. 

"Walter.  [Coaxingly.]  Betty. 

Betty.  To-morrow  you'll  go  to  her — or  to-night 
perhaps 

Walter.  To-night — ridiculous  !     At  this  hour  ! 

Betty.  She's  a  deceitful  little  cat.  I  saw  her  last 
week — she  never  t^ld  me .. 

Walter.  I  don't  think  she  knew.  I  only  proposed 
to-day. 

Betty.  [Flinging  herself  back  in  her  chair,  and 
opening  wide  eyes,]  You — proposed — to-day  ! 

Walter.  [Very  embarrassed.]  Yes — I  mean 

Bktty.  You — proposed — to-day !  And  waited  till 
she  had  accepted  you — to  tell  me 

Walter.  [Eagerly.]  Don't  be  so  silly — come,  come, 
he'll  be  back  in  a  minute.  .  .  .  And,  believe  me,  I'm 
not  worth  making  a  fuss  about ! 

Betty.  [Looking  contemptuously  at  him.]  That's  true. 

Walter.  Yes,  it  is,  worse  luckl  I  deserve  all 
you've  said  to  me.     And  you'll  be  .  .  .  much  better 

.  .  without  me. 

Betty.  Better  ? 

Walter.  Yes,  better,  better — any  way  you  choose 
to  put  it !  I'm  a — but  never  mind  that !— -Look  here 
— you'd  like  me  to  stop  ? 


^0         THE  MAN  L\  THE  STALLS 

Betty.  He  wants  to  play  bridge. 

Walter.  Don't  you  think  that  I '         • 

Betty.  [Hearing  Hector  coming.]  Sh, 

[Hector  comes  in — she  is  idly  tossing  the  cards 
about.  Hector  has  put  on  a  smoking- 
iacket — he  comes  in,  very  jolly,  fussing 
around,  rubbing  his  ha/nds,  so  glad  to  be 
home.     Ee  sits,  to  the  right  of  Betty. 

Hector.  Now  for  a  game ! 

[He  seizes  a  pack,  and  spreads  out  the  cards. 

Betty.  [Lea7iing  hack.]  Not  sure  that  I  want  to 
play. 

Hector.  Don't  be  disagreeable,  Betty !     Why  ? 

Betty.  [Listlessly,  as  she  rises  and  moves  across  the 
room.'\  No  fun,  being  three. 

Hector.  Good  practice  for  you.     Come  on. 

Betty.  [Leaning  against  the  other  table,  and  turning 
and  facing  them.]  Besides,  he  has  something  to  tell 
you. 

Hector.  Walter? 

Betty.  Yes. 

Hector.  [Looking  inquiringly  at  Walter.]  To  tell 
me  f    What  is  it  ? 

Betty.  That  he's  engaged. 

Hector.  [Shouting,  as  he  leans  across  the  table.] 
Never!     Walter!     Engaged?     You? 

Walter.  [N'ervously,]  Yes. 

Hector.  [N'oisily  and  affectionately.]  You  old 
scoundrel !     You  rascal  and  villain  !     Engaged — and 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  STALLS         21 

you  don't  come  and  tell  me  first !  Well  I — am — 
damned  ! 

"Walter.  [Trying  to  take  it  gaily.']  I  knew  you'd 
chaff  me  about  it. 

Hector.  Chafl"  you !  Silly  old  coon !  why  I'm 
glad  !  Of  course  Ave  shall  miss  you — but  marriage — 
it's  the  only  thing,  my  boy — the  only  thing !  Who 
is  she?     Do  I  know  her  ? 

Walter.  [Mumbling,  as  he  fingers  the  cards.]  A 
friend  of  Betty's — I  fancy  you've  met  her 

Hector.  Who  ? 

Betty.  Mary  Glllingham.  We're  the  first  to  know 
— he  only  proposed  to-day. 

Hector.  Gillingham,  Gillingham.  ...  Oh  yes, 
I've  seen  her,  just  seen  hei',  but  I  don't  remember. 
...  I  Biiy,  not  the  daughter  of  the  sealing-wax 
man? 

Walter.  Yes, 

Hector.  Then  there's  lots  of  tin  !  Fine  !  Oh  you 
artful  old  dodger  !     Is  she  pretty  ? 

Walter.  So-so, 

Betty.  [Still  leaning  against  the  table,  and  looking 
at  them  both.]  She's  excessively  pretty.  She  has 
yellow  hair  and  blue  eyes. 

Hector.  [Ghvckling.]  And  she  has  caught  old 
Wallie,  The  cynical  old  Wallie  who  snift'ed  at 
women  !     Though  perhaps  it's  the  money 

Betty.  No.     He's  in  love  with  her. 

Hector.  That's  good.  I'm  glad.  And  I  con- 
gratulate you — heartily,  my  boy.  [77es5i':es  Walter's 


22        THE  MAN  IN  THE  STALLS 

hand,  and  wrings  it.^  We  must  drink  to  it !  [^He  gets 
uj),  goes  to  the  side-table,  and  pours  some  whiskey  into 
a  tumbler.]  Charge  your  glass,  Walter !  [Walter 
rises  and  goes  to  the  side-table.]  Ladies  and  gentlemen ^ 
I  give  you  the  bride  and  bridegroom !  [Re  Jills  the 
glass  from  the  syphon  and  passes  it  to  Walter,  then 
proceeds  to  fill  his  own.]  Betty,  you  must  join  us. 

Betty.  [Quietly.]  No, 

Hector.  You  can't  toast  him  in  water,  of  course. 
Has  she  cleared  away  yet  ?  I'll  get  you  some 
Hock. 

[ffe  puts  his  glass  down  and  moves  to  the  door 
at  back, 

Betty.  Don't  be  so  silly.     1  won't  drink  at  all. 

Hector.  [Amazed.]  Not  to  old  Walter  ? 

Betty.  [Steadily.]  No. 

Hector.  Why  ? 

Betty.  [Almost  jeeringly.]  Because — old  Walter — • 
has  been  my  lover. 

Hector.  [Stopping,  and  staring  at  her,]  What  ? 

Betty.  [Calmly,  looking  fidl  at  him.]  My  lover  .  .  , 
these  last  two  years. 

Hector.  [Staring  stupidly  at  h&)\]  He  has  been 

Betty.  [Impatiently,  as  she  taps  the  floor  with  her 
foot]  Yes,  yes.  How  often  must  I  tell  you  ?  My 
lover — don't  you  know  what  that  means  ?  Why  do 
you  stare  at  me  with  those  fat  goggle-eyes  of  yours  ? 
He  has  been  my  lover — and  now  he  has  fallen  in  love 
with  this  girl  and  means  to  marry  her.     That's  all, 


THE  ]\IAN  IN  THE  STALLS         23 

Hector.  [Ttcrning  towards  Walter,  who  hasn't 
stirred  from  the  side-table.]  What  ?  You  ? 

[Walter  remains  motionless  and,  silent. 

Hector.  \_In  r)iuj[}led  tones,  scarcely  able  to  speak.] 
You  !  It's  true  what  this  woman  says  ? 

Betty.  [Contemptuously.]  This  woman  !  Don't  be  so 
melodramatic  !  Have  you  forgotten  my  name  ? 

Hector.  [Turning  fiercely  to  her,  roaring  madly.] 
Silence,  Jezebel !  \_She  shrinks  hack,  in  alarm,  towards 
the  fire.]  Youi*  name  !  Wait  a  bit,  I'll  tell  you !  \_Ue 
takes  a  step  toioards  her — she  crouches  in  ten'or  against 
the  wall^  You  shall  hear  what  your  name  is !  Just 
now  I'm  dealing  with  him.  [He  swings  round  to 
Walter,]  You  there,  you  skunk  and  thief  !  You, 
you  lying  hound  !  I  was  your  be^t  friend.  So  you've 
taken  my  wife,  have  you  ?  And  now  mean  to  eo 
off  and  marry  this  girl.  That's  it  ?  Oh,  it's  so  simple  ! 
Here — come  here — sit  down.  Sit  down,  I  tell  you. 
Here,  in  this  chair.  Shall  I  have  to  drag  you  to  it  ? 
I  want  to  keep  my  hands  off  you.  Here.  [Walter 
has  moved  slowly  towards  hha.  Hector  has  ha:i.ged 
down  a  chair  behind  the  centre  table,  Walter  sits  in 
it — Hector  speaks  over  his  shoulder  to  Betty.]  And 
you — fetch  pen  and  ink  and  paper 

Betty.     [In  abject  panic]    Hector 


Hector.  [Turning  fieixely  and  scowling  at  her.]  If 
you  speak  to  me  I'll  brain  you  too.  Just  you  go 
in  there  and  fetch  the  things.  D'you  hear?  Go. 
[She  moves  into  the  other  room.  Hector  swings  round 
to  Walter.]     As  for   you,  you're  a  bcoundiel,      A 


24         THE  MAN  IN  THE  STALLS 

rogue,  a  thief,  a  liar,  a  traitor.  Of  the  very  worst 
kind,  the  blackest.  Not  an  ordinary  case  of  a  hus- 
band and  wife — I  trusted  you — you  were  my  best 
friend.  You  spawn,  you  tiling  of  the  gutter,  you 
foul-hearted,  damnable  slug ! 

[Betty  comes  hack,  dragging  her  feet,  carrying 

paper  and  envelopes  and  a  sti;lojrai>]t — she 

puts  them  on  the  table. 

Hector.  Not  that  stylograph — that's  mine — his 
dirty  hands  shan't  touch  it — I  could  never  use  it 
again.  Fetch  your  pen — youts — you  belong  to  him, 
don't  you  ?     Go  in  and  fetch  it.     D'you  heu^r  ? 

[Betty  goes  into  the  inner  room  again. 

Hector.  My  wife.  And  you  the  man  I've  done 
more  for  tliiin  for  any  one  eh^e  in  the  world.  Tue  man 
1  cared  for,  you  low  do^.  Used  my  hotu-e — came 
here  because  it  was  dull  at  the  Club — and  took  my 
wife  ?  I  don't  know  \  rhy  I  don't  kill  you.  I've  the 
riii^'ht.  But  I  v/on't.  You  shall  pay  for  it,  my  fine 
fellow — you  are  going  to  nay — now. 

[Betxy  brings  a  pen  and  an  inkstand;  she 
2jlaces  them  on  the  table;  Hector  seizes 
them  and  pushes  them  in  front  o/Vv' alter. 
Betty  slinks  to  the  other  side  of  the  room, 
and  stands  by  the  sofa. 

Hector,  [^'o  Walter.]  Now  you  write.  You 
hear  ?  You  write  what  I  dictate.  Word  for  word. 
What's  the  old  brute's  name  ? 

Walter.  Whose? 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  STALLS         25 

Hector.  Whose  !  Her  father,  the  Bealing-wax 
man,  old  Gillingham  ? 

Walter.  [Starmg.]  Gillingham! 

Hkctor.  Gillingham,     Yes.     What  is  it? 

Walter.  You  want  me  to  write  to  him  ? 

Hector,  [^fodding.]  To  him.  Who  else?  A  con- 
fe.ssion  ?     I've  had  that.     His  name  ? 

Walter.  [Dro2y2nng  the  pen  and  half  rising.']  I 
won't 

Hector.  [Springing  upon  him  in  a  mad  fury,  and, 
forcing  him  back  into  the  chair.]  You  won't,  you  dog ! 
You  dare  say  that — to  me  !  By  Heaven,  you  will ! 
You'll  lick  the  dust  off  this  floor,  if  I  tell  you! 
You'll  go  on  your  hands  and  knees,  and  crawl ! 
Sit  down,  you !  Sit  down  and  take  up  your 
lilthy  pen.  So.  [Thoroughly  cowed,  Walter  has 
taken  up  the  j»;e-*i  again.]  And  now — his  name. 
Don't  make  me  ask  you  again,  I  tell  you,  don't. 
What  is  it? 

Walter.  Richard. 

Hector.  Very  well,  Richard.  So  write  that  down. 
To  Richard  Gillingham.  I  have  to-day  proposed  to 
your  daughter,  and  she  has  accepted  me.  Got  that  ? 
She  has  accepted  me.  But  I  can't  marry  her — can't 
many  her — because  I  have  seduced  the  wife  of  my 
friend  Hector  Allen 

Walter.  [Appealhigly,  drop^nng  his  pen.]  Hector! 

Hector.  [Frantically  grippi'ng  Walter  by  the 
throat,  till  he  takes  up  hin  pen  again.]  The  wife  of 
my  friend  Hector  Alien — a  rite  it — and  plainly,  you 


26         THE  MAN  IN  THE  STALLS 

hound,  plaiuly — so — and   because  I  am  taking    the 
woman  away  with  me  to-night. 

Betty.  [With  a  loud  crt/.]  Hector! 

Hector.  [Over  his  shoulder,  loatching  Walter 
write,^  Silence,  over  there,  you  !  Hold  your  tongue  ! 
Go  into  your  room  ;ind  put  on  your  things — we've  done 
with  you  here !  Take  what  you  want — I  don't  care — 
you  don't  show  your  face  here  again.  And  you — [he 
taps  his  clenched  hand  against  Walter's  arm]  write. 
What  are  you  stopping  for  ?  How  far  have  you  got  ? 
[He peers  over  Walter's  shoulder.]  Because — I — am — 
taking — the — woman — away — with — mo — to-night. 

Betty.  [Beside  herself,  wringing  her  hands.]  Hector, 
Hector 

Hector.  [Savagely,  as  he  makes  a  half-turn  towards 
her.]  You  still  there  ?  Wait  a  bit.  I'll  come  to  you, 
when  I've  finished  with  him.  If  you  haven't  gone 
and  put  on  your  things,  you  shall  go  ofi" without  them. 
Into  the  street.  You'll  find  other  women  there  like 
you.  [He  turns  hack  to  Walter.]  Here,  you,  have 
you  written  ?  [He  looks  over  Walter's  shoulder.] 
Go  on — I'm  getting  impatient.     Go  on,  I  tell  you. 

I — am  — taking — the 

[Walter  is  sloicly  writing  down  the  words, 
Hector  standing  over  him  ;  Betty  sud- 
denly bursts  into  a  peal  of  toild,  uproarious 
laughter,  and  Itts  herself  fall  into  a  chair  to 
the  left  of  the  card-table. 

Hector.  [Madly.]    You ! 

[He  leaves  Walter,  and  almost  springs  at  her.] 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  STALLS         27 

Betty.  [Brimming  with  merriment.^  Oh,  you  old 
donkey  !     How  we  have  gulled  your  leg ! 

Hector.  [Staring  at  her,  stopping  dead  short.] 
You 

Betty.  [Through  her  laughter,  choking.]  Hector, 
Hector  !  Conventional  situations  !  The  usual  stodge  ! 
The  lover  and  husband  !  You  goose,  you  wonderful 
old  goose  ! 

[Walter,  with  a  mightij  effort,  has  pidled  him- 
self together,  and  roars  with  laughter  too. 
He  jumps  up.  Hector  is  standing  there 
blinking,  paralysed. 

Walter.  [Merrily,  to  Betty.]  Oh  really,  you 
shouldn't.     You've  given  it  awrty  too  soon  ! 

Betty.  Too  soon  !  He'd  hava  strangled  us.  Did  you 
ever  see  such  a  tiger  ? 

Walter.  [Chuckling  hugely.]  He  didn't  give  the 
lover  much  chauce  to  stand  up  to  him,  did  he  ? 

Betty.  And  ivasn't  he  original !  Dog,  hound,  villain, 
traitor ! 

Walter.  To  say  nothing  of  Jezebel !  Though,  be- 
tween ourselves,  I  think  he  meant  Messalina  ! 

Betty.  And  I  was  to  go  into  the  street.  But  he  did 
let  me  till  my  bag  ! 

Walter.  I  think  the  playwrights  come  out 
on  top,  I  do  indeed.  [He  goes  to  Hector,  and 
stands  to  left  of  him.]  Hector,  old  chap,  here's  the 
letter ! 

Betty.  [Goi7ig  to  the  other  side  0/ Hector,  and  drop- 
ping a  low  ciirtsey.]  And  please,  Mr.  Husband,  was  it  to 


28         THE  MAN  IN  THE  STALLS 

be  a  big  bag,  or  a  small  bag,  and  might  I  have  taken 
the  silver  teapot  ? 

[Hector  has  been  standing  there  stupid,  dazed, 
dumbfounded,  too  bewildered  for  his  mivd 
to  act  or  thoughts  to  come  to  him  ;  he  sud- 
denly bursts  into  a  roar  of  Titanic,  over- 
tvhelming  laughter.  He  laughs,  and  laughs, 
staggers  to  the  sofa,  falls  on  it,  rocks  and 
roars  till  the  tears  roll  down  his  cheeks.  He 
sways  from  side  to  side,  unable  to  control 
himself — his  laughter  is  so  colossal  that  the 
infection  catches  the  others ;  theirs  becomes 
i^d  genuine  too.] 

f),        ^^'*"^ '©TTMas.  \With  difficulty,  trying  to   control   herself] 
The  letter !    Old  Gillingham  !   "  His  name,  scoundrel, 
his  name ! " 
A      I^hC^  Wsisras.  [Gurgling.]  With  his  hand  at  my  throat ! 
Sit  there,  villain,  and  write ! 

Betty.  "  I'll  deal  with  you  presently !  Wait  till 
I've  finished  with  him  !  " 

Walter.  "  Into  the  street !  "  At  least,  they  do 
usually  say  *'  into  the  night !  " 

Hector.  [Rubbing  his  eyes  and  panting  for  breath.] 
Oh,  you  pair  of  blackguards !  Too  bad — no,  really 
too  bad  !  It  was !  I  fell  in,  I  did  !  Oh,  Lord,  oh, 
Lord,  what  a  nightmare  !  But  it  wasn't  right,  really 
it  wasn't — no  really  !  My  Lord,  how  I  floundered — 
head  and  shoulders — swallowed  it  all !  Comes  of 
reading  that  muck  every  day — never  stopped  to  think ! 
I  didn't !    Walter,  old  chap !    \He  holds  out  his  hand. 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  STALLS         29 

Betty !  My  poor  Betty !  [He  draws  her  towards  him."] 
The  things  I  said  to  you  ! 

Betty.  [Carelessly  eluding  the  caress.^  At  least 
admit  that  you're  rather  hard  on  the  playwriting 
people  ! 

Hectob.  [Getting  up  and  shaking  himself.^  Oh, 
they  be  blowed  !  Well,  you  have  had  a  game  with 
me!  [ffe  shakes  himself  again.]  Brrrrr!  Oh,  my 
Lord  !     "What  I  went  through  ! 

Betty.  It  was  a  lark  !  you  should  have  seen  your- 
self !  Your  eyes  starting  out  of  your  head !  You 
looked  like  a  murderer ! 

Hector.  By  Jove,  and  1  felt  it !  For  two  pins  I'd 
have 

Betty.  And  Mary  GilUngham !  I'hafs  the  funniest 
part !  That  you  could  have  t&)ug©b  Ac  was  engaged 
— to  her  I 

[Involuntarily  the  smile  dies  away  on  Walter's 
fOfCe  ;  he  turns  and  stares  at  her  ;  she  goes 
on  calmly, 

Betty,  When  she  happens  to  be  the  one  girl  in 
this  world  he  can't  stand ! 

Walter.  [  With  a  movement  that  he  can^t  control. 
Betty  1 

Betty.  [Turning  smilingly  to  hiin.]  No  harm  in 
my  telling  Hector — he  scarcely  knows  her!  [Sfie 
swings  round  to  Hector  agai7i.]  Why,  Walter  simply 
loathes  the  poor  girl !  That's  what  made  it  so  funny  I 
[At  the  mere  thought  of  it  she  bursts  out  laughing  again, 
and  goes  on  speaking  through  her  laughter.]  And  I  tell 


30         THE  MAN  IN  THE  STALLS 

you — if  you  ever  hear  he's  engaged  to  her — why,  you 
can  believe  the  rest  of  the  story  too ! 

Hector.  [^Laughing  heartily  as  he  pats  Walter  on 
the  shoulder.]  Poor  old  Walter !  And,  d'you  know,  I 
was  quite  pleased  at  the  thought  of  his  getting 
married  !  I  was  !  [He  turns  to  him.]  But  it's  better, 
old  chap,  for  us — we'd  have  missed  you — terribly  ! 
[With  another  pat  on  Walter's  shoulder,  he  goes  to  the 
fi/re,  and  drops  in  the  letter.]  Mustn't  leave  that  lying 
about !  \He  t^irns.]  Well,  by  Jove,  if  any  one  had  told 
me.  .  .  .     And  drinking  to  him,  and  all ! 

Betty.  If  you'll  fetch  me  that  glass  of  Hock  now, 
I  will  drink  to  him,  Hector.  To  Walter,  the 
Bachelor ! 

Hector.  [Beaming.]  So  we  will !  Good.  I'll  get  it. 
[He  hustles  into  the  dining-room. 

Betty.  [Moving  swiftly  to  Walter.]  Well,  now's 
your  time.     One  thing  or  the  other. 

Walter.  [Savagely.]  You  fiend  ! 

Betty.  I'll  go  and  see  her  to-morrow — see  her 
constantly 

Walter.  Why  are  you  doing  this  ? 

Betty.  You've  ruined  my  life  and  his.  At  least, 
yoit  shan't  be  happy. 

Walter.  And  you  imagine  I'll  come  back  to  you 
— that  we'll  go  on,  you  and  I  ? 

Betty.  [Scornfully.]  No — don't  be  afraid  !  You've 
shown  yourself  to  me  to-day.  That's  all  done  with — 
finished.  His  friend  now — with  the  load  off  you — 
but  never  her  husband.     Never  f-  .  . 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  STALLS         5i 

[Hkctou  comes  hustling  hack,  with  the  bottle 

of  Hochf  and  a  wine-glass  that  he  gives  to 

Betty — she  holds  it,  and  he  fills  it  from 

the  hottle. 

Hector,  Here  you  are,  my  girl — and  now,  where's 

my  whiskey?     [Lfe  t7-ots  roiind  to  the  side  table, Jinds 

his  glass,   and   Walter's — hands    one  to   Walter.] 

Here,  Wallie — yours  must  be  the  one  that's  begun — I 

didn't  have  time  to  touch  mine !     Here.     [Walter 

takes  it.^     And  forgive  me,  old   man,  for  thinking, 

even   one   minute — [Re   wrings  him   by   the  handJ] 

Here's  to  you,  old  friend.     And  Betty,  to  you  !     Oh, 

Lord,  I  just  want  this  drink ! 

Betty.  [7?i  cold,  clear  tones,  as  she  holds  up  her 
glass.'\  To  Walter,  the  Bachelor ! 

[She    drains    her    glass;    Walter    has    his 

momenfs  hesitation ;  he  drinks,  and  with 

tremendous  effort  succeeds  in  composing  his 

face. 

Hector.    [Gaily.]    To  Walter,  the  Bachelor !    [ffe 

di'inks  his  glass  to  the  dregs  and  puts  it  down,]    And 

now — for  a  game. 

Walter.  I  think  I 

Hector.  [Coaxingly.]  Sit  down,  laddie — just  one 
rubber.  It's  quite  early.  Do.  There's  a  good  chap. 
[They  all  sit :  Hector  at  hack,  Betty  to  the  left  oj 
him,  Walter  to  the  right — he  spreads  out  the  cards — 
tlicy  draw  for  partners.]  As  we  are — you  and  Betty 
— I've  got  the  dummy.  [He  shuffles  the  cards — Betty 
dita — he  begins  to  deal,]     That's  how  I  like  it — one 


32         THE  MAN  IN  THE  STALLS 

on  each  side  of  me.  Also  I  like  having  dummy. 
Now,  Betty,  play  up.  Oh,  Lord,  how  good  it  is,  how 
good !  A  nightmare,  I  tell  you — terrible !  And 
really  you  must  forgive  me  for  being  such  an  ass. 
But  the  way  you  played  up,  both  of  you  !  My  little 
Betty — a  Duse,  that's  what  she  is — a  real  Duse ! 
{He  gathers  up  his  cards.]  And  the  gods  are  kind  to 
me — I've  got  a  har.d,  I  tell  you!  I  call  NO 
THUMPS ! 

[He  heavis  at  them — the}/  are  placidly  sorting 
their  cards.  He  piits  his  hand  down  and 
proceeds  to  look  at  his  dummy,  as  the 
curtain  falls. 


CURTAIN 


A  MARRIAGE  HAS  BEEN 
ARRANGED  .... 


THE  PERSONS  OF  THE  PLAY 

Mr.  Harrison  Crookstkad 
L1.DT  Alink  de  Vaux 


Produced  at  the 
Oarrick  Theatre 
on  March  27,  1904 


A  MARRIAGE  HAS  BEEN 
ARRANGED  .... 

Scene  /  I'he  coase/rvaiory  of  No.  SOO  Grosvenor  Square. 
Hour,  close  on  midnight.  A  ball  is  in  progress,  and 
dreamy  waltz  music  is  heard  in  the  distance. 

Laby  Aline   de  Vaux  enters,  leaning  on  the 
arm  of  Mr.  Harrison  Crockstead. 

Lady  Aline  is  a  tall,  exquisitely-gowned  girl, 
of  the  conventional  and  much-admired  type  of 
beauty.  Put  her  in  way  draiolng'room  in  the  world, 
and  she  would  at  once  be  recognised  as  a  high- 
horn  Englishwoman.  She  has  in  her,  in  embryo, 
all  those  excellent  qualities  that  go  to  make  a  great 
lady :  the  icy  stare,  the  haxighty  movement  of  the 
shoulder,  the  disdainful  arch  of  the  lip ;  she  has 
also,  hut  only  an  experienced  observer  would  notice 
it,  something  of  wistfulness,  something  that  speaks 
of  a  sore  and  wounded  heart — though  it  is  sujffl- 
eieatly  evident  that  this  organ  is  kept  under  ad- 
mirable control.  A  girl  who  has  been  placed  in  a 
position  of  life  where  artificiality  rules,  who  has 
been  taught  to  be  artificial  and  has  thoroughly 
learned  her  lesson  ;  yei  one  who  would  unhesitat- 
ingly know  the  proper  thing  to  do  did  a  camel  holt 
37 


38  A  MARRIAGE  HAS 

with  her  in  the  desert,  or  an  eastern  potentati 
invite  her  to  become  his  two  hundred  aud  fifty- 
seventh  wife.  In  a  word,  a  lady  of  complete  self- 
possession  and  magnificent  control.  Mr.  Ckock» 
STEAD  is  a  big,  burly  man  of  forty  or  so,  and  of  the 
kind  to  whom  the  ordinary  West  End  butler  would 
consider  himself  perfectly  justified  in  declaring  that 
her  ladyship  was  not  at  home.  And  yet  his  evening 
clothes  sit  well  on  him  ;  and  there  is  a  certain  air 
of  command  about  the  man  that  wotdd  have  made 
the  butler  uncomfortable.  That  functionary  would 
have  excused  himself  by  declaring  that  Mr.  Crock- 
stead  didn't  look  a  gevtleman.  And  perhaps  he 
doesn't.  His  walk  is  rather  a  slouch  ;  he  has  a  way 
of  keeping  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  of  jerking 
out  his  sentences;  a  way,  above  all,  of  seeming 
perfectly  indAfferent  to  the  comfort  of  the  people  he 
happens  to  be  addressing.  The  impression  he  gives 
is  one  of  power,  not  of  refinement ;  and  the  massive 
face,  with  its  heavy  lines,  and  eyes  that  are  usually 
veiled,  seems  to  give  no  clue  whatever  to  the  character 
of  the  man  loithin. 

The  couple  h-eak  apart  when  they  enter  tfie 
room  ;  Ladt  Aline  is  the  least  bit  nervous,  though 
she  shows  no  trace  of  it ;  Mr.  Crockstead  aJbto- 
lutdy  imperturbable  and  undisturbed. 

Crockstead.  [^Looking  around."]  Ah — this  is  the 
place — very  quiet,  retired,  romantic — et  cetera.  Music 
in  the  distance — all  very  appropriate  and  sentimental. 


BEEN  ARRANGED  ....  39 

[She  leaves  him,  and  sits,  quietly  fanning  herself ;  lie 
itands,  looking  at  her.]  You  seem  perfectly  calm,  Lady 
Mine? 

Aline.  [Sitting.]  Conservatories  are  not  unusual 
appendages  to  a  ball-room,  Mr.  Crcckstead ;  nor  is 
this  coiisei'vatory  unlike  other  conservatories. 

CsocKSTEAD  [Tur7iing  to  her.]  I  wonder  why 
women  are  always  so  evasive  ? 

Aline.  With  your  peimission  we  will  not  discuss 
the  sex.  You  and  I  are  too  old  to  be  cynical,  and 
too  young  to  be  appreciative.  And  besides,  it  is  a 
rule  of  mine,  whenever  I  sit  out  a  dance,  that  my 
partner  shall  avoid  the  subjects  of  women — and  golf. 

Crcckstead.  You  limit  the  area  of  conversation. 
But  then,  in  this  particular  instance,  I  take  it,  we 
have  not  come  here  to  talk  ? 

Aline.  [Coldly.]  I  beg  your  pardon  ! 

Crcckstead.  [Sitting  beside  her.]  Lady  Aline,  they 
are  dancing  a  cotillon  in  there,  so  we  have  half  an 
hour  before  us.  We  shall  not  be  disturbed,  for  the 
Duchess,  your  aunt,  has  considerately  stationed  her 
aged  companion  in  the  corridor,  with  instructions  to 
ward  oflF  intruders. 

Aline.  [Ve7-y  siir2)rised.]  Mr.  Crcckstead  ! 

Crcckstead.  [Looking  hard  at  her.]  Didn't  you 
know ?  [Aline  turns  aside,  embarrassed.]  That's  light 
— of  course  you  did.  Don't  you  know  why  I  have 
brought  you  here  ?  That's  right ;  of  course  you  do. 
The  Duchess,  your  aunt,  and  the  Marchioness,  your 
mother — observe  how  fondly  my  tongue  trips  out  the 


40  A  MARRIAGE  HAS 

titles — smiled  sweetly  on  us  as  we  left  the  ball-room. 
There  will  be  a  notice  in  the  Morning  Post  to-morrow 
"  A  Marriage  Has  Been  Arranged  Between " 

ALI^^:.  [Bewildered  and  offended.]  Mr.  Crockstead  1 
This — this  is 

Crockstead.  [Always  in  the  same  quiet  tone.] 
Because  I  have  not  yet  proposed,  you  mean  ?  Of 
course  I  intend  to,  Lady  Aline.  Only  as  I  know  that 
you  will  accept  me 

Aline.  [In  icy  tones,  as  she  rises,]  Let  us  go  back 
to  the  ball-room. 

Crockstead.  [Quite  undistrirhed.]  Oh,  please !  That 
won't  help  us,  you  know.  Do  sit  down.  I  assure 
you  I  have  never  proposed  before,  so  that  naturally  I 
am  a  trifle  nervous.  Of  course  I  know  that  we  are 
only  supers  really,  without  much  of  a  speaking  part ; 
but  the  spirit  moves  me  to  gag,  in  the  absence  of  the 
stage-manager,  who  is,  let  us  say,  the  Duchess 

Aline,  I  have  heard  of  the  New  Humour,  Mr. 
Crockstead,  though  I  confess  I  have  never  understood 
it.     This  may  be  an  exquisite  example 

Crockstead.  By  no  means.  I  am  merely  trying  to 
do  the  right  thing,  though  perhaps  not  the  conven- 
tional one.  Before  making  you  the  formal  offer  of 
my  hand  and  fortune,  which  amounts  to  a  little  over 

three  millions 

Aline.  [Fanning  herself.]  How  people  exaggerate  I 
Between  six  and  seven,  /  heard. 

Crockstead.  Only  three  at  present,  but  we  must 
be  patient.     Before   throwing  myself   at  your  feet, 


BEEN  ARRANGED  ....  41 

metaplioricallj,  I  am  anxious  that  you  should  know 
something  of  the  man  whom  you  are  about  to  marry. 

Aiiixa.  That  is  really  most  considerate ! 

Crockstead.  I  have  the  advantage  of  yon,  you  see, 
inasmuch  as  you  have  many  dear  friends,  who  have  told 
me  all  about  you. 

Aline.  [With  growing  exasperation,  bttt  keeping  very 
cool.]  Indeed? 

Crockstead,  I  am  aware,  for  instance,  that  this  is 
your  ninth  season 

Aline.  [Snapping  her  fait.]  You  are  remarkably 
well-informed. 

Crockstead.  I  have  been  told  that  again  to-night, 
three  times,  by  charming  young  women  who  vowed 
that  they  loved  you.  Now,  as  I  have  no  dearest 
friends,  it  is  unlikely  that  you  will  have  heard  any- 
thing equally  definite  concerning  myself.  I  propose  to 
enlighten  you. 

Aline.  [Satirically.]  The  story  of  your  life — how 
thrilling ! 

Crockstkad.  I  trust  you  may  find  it  so.  [He  sits, 
and  pauses  for  a  moment,  then  begins,  very  quietly.]  Lady 
Aline,  I  am  a  self-made  man,  as  the  foolish  phrase 
has  it — a  man  whose  early  years  were  spent  in  savage 
and  desolate  places,  where  the  devil  had  much  to  say ; 
a  man  in  whom  whatever  there  once  had  been  of 
natural  kindness  was  very  soon  kicked  out.  I  was 
poor,  and  lonely,  for  thirty-two  years  :  I  have  been 
rich,  and  lonely,  for  ten.  My  millions  have  been 
made  honestly  enough ;  but  poverty  and  wretchedness 


42  A  MARRIAGE  HAS 

had  left  their  mark  on  me,  and  you  will  find  very  few 
men  with  a  good  word  to  say  for  Han  ison  Crockstead, 
I  have  no  polish,  or  culture,  or  tastes.  Art  wearies 
me,  literature  sends  me  to  sleep 

Aline.  When  you  come  to  the  chapter  of  youi 
personal  deficiencies,  Mr.  Crockstead,  please  remember 
that  they  are  sufficiently  evident  for  me  to  have 
already  observed  them. 

Crockstead.  [Without  a  trace  of  annoyance.]  That 
is  true.  I  v/ill  pass,  then,  to  more  intimate  matters. 
In  a  little  township  in  Australia — a  horrible  place 
where  there  was  gold — I  met  a  woman  whom  I  loved. 
She  was  what  is  technically  known  as  a  bad  woman. 
She  ran  away  with  another  man.  I  tracked  them  to 
'i'exas,  and  in  a  mining  camp  there  I  shot  the  man. 
I  wanted  to  take  the  woman  back,  but  she  refused. 
That  has  been  my  solitary  love  affair  ;  and  I  shall 
never  love  any  woman  again  as  I  loved  her,  I  think 
that  is  all  that  I  have  to  tell  you.  And  now — will 
you  marry  me,  Lady  Aline  ? 

Aline.  [Very  steadily,  facing  him.]  Not  if  you  were 
the  last  man  in  this  world,  Mr.  Crockstead. 

Ceockstead.  [With  a  pleasant  smile.]  At  least  that 
is  emphatic. 

Aline.  See,  I  will  give  you  confidence  for  con- 
fidence. This  is,  as  you  suggest,  my  ninth  season. 
Living  in  an  absurd  milieu  where  marriage  with  a 
wealthy  man  is  regarded  as  the  one  aim  in  life,  I  have, 
during  the  past  few  weeks,  done  all  that  lay  in  my 
power  to  wring  a  proposal  from  you. 


BEEN  ARRANGED  ....  43 

Crockstead.  I  appreciate  your  sincerity. 

Aline.  Perhaps  the  knowledge  that  other  women 
were  doing  the  same  lent  a  little  zest  to  the  pursuit, 
which  otherwise  would  have  been  very  dreary  ;  for  I 
confess  that  your  personality  did  not — especially 
appeal  to  me. 

CfiOCKSTEAD.  [Cheerfully,^  Thank  you  very  much. 

AnNE.  Not  at  all.  Indeed,  this  room  being  the 
Palace  of  Truth,  I  will  admit  that  it  was  only  by 
thinking  hard  of  your  three  millions  that  I  have  been 
able  to  conceal  the  weariness  I  have  felt  in  your 
society.  And  now  will  you  marry  me,  Mr.  Crock- 
stead  ? 

Crockstead.  [Serenely.^  I  fancy  that's  what  we're 
here  for,  isn't  it  ? 

Aline.  [Stamping  her  foot.'\  I  have,  of  course,  been 
debarred  from  the  disreputable  amours  on  which  you 
linger  so  fondly  ;  but  I  loved  a  soldier  cousin  of  mine, 
and  would  have  run  away  with  him  had  my  mother  not 
packed  me  ofi'  in  time.  He  went  to  India,  and  I  stayed 
here  ;  but  he  is  the  only  man  I  have  loved  or  ever  shall 
love.  Further,  let  me  tell  you  I  am  twenty-eight ;  I 
have  always  been  poor — I  hate  poverty,  and  it  has 
soured  i;;e  no  less  tha.M  you.  Dress  is  the  thing  in  life 
I  care  for  most,  vulgarity  my  chief  abomination. 
And  to  be  frank,  I  consider  you  the  most  vulgar  person 
I  have  ever  met.  Will  you  still  marry  me,  Mr.  Crock- 
stead ? 

Crockstead.  [IPifA  undiminished  cheerfulness.^ 
Why  not  ? 


44  A  MARRIAGE  HAS 

Aline.  This  is  an  outrage.  Am  I  a  horse,  do  you 
think,  or  a  ballet-dancer  ?  Do  you  imagine  I  will  sell 
myself  to  you  for  your  three  millions  ? 

Crockstead.  Logic,  my  dear  Lady  Aline,  is  evi- 
dently not  one  of  your  more  special  possessions.  For, 
had  it  not  been  for  my — somewhat  eccentric  pre- 
liminaries— you  would  have  accepted  me,  would  you 
not? 

Aline,  [Embarrassed.]  I — I 

Crockstead.  If  I  had  said  to  you,  timidly :  "  Lady 
Aline,  I  love  you :  I  am  a  simple,  unsophisticated 
person  ;  will  you  marry  me  ? "  You  would  have 
answered,  "  Yes,  Harrison,  I  will." 

Aline.  It  is  a  mercy  to  have  escaped  marrying  a 
man  with  such  a  Christian  name  as  Harrison. 

Crockstead,  It  has  been  in  the  family  for  genera- 
tions, you  know  s  but  it  is  a  strange  thing  that  I  am 
always  called  Harrison,  and  that  no  one  ever  adopts 
the  diminutive. 

Aline.  That  does  not  surprire me:  we  have  no  pet 
name  for  the  East  wind, 

Crockstsad.  The  possession  of  millions,  you  see, 
Lady  Aline,  puts  you  into  eternal  quarantine.  It  is  a 
kind  of  yellow  fever,  with  the  difl'erence  that  people  are 
perpetually  anxious  to  cat^^h  your  complaint.  But  we 
digress.  To  return  to  the  question  of  our  marriage 

Aline.  I  beg  your  pardon. 

Crockstead.  I  presume  that  it  is — arranged  ? 

Aline  [Haughtily.]  Mr.  Crorkstead,  let  me  remind 
you  that  frankness  has  its  limits  :  exceeding  these,  it 


BEEN  ARRANGED  ....  45 

is  apt  to   degenerate  into   impertinence.      Be  good 
enough  to  conduct  me  to  the  ball.room, 

[She  moves  to  the  door. 

Crockstead.  You  have  five  sisters,  I  believe,  Lady 
Aline  ?  [Alixe  stops  short.]  All  younger  than  your- 
sell,  all  marriageable,  and  all  unmarried  ? 

[Aline  hangs  her  head  and  is  silent. 

Crockstead.  Your  father 

Aline.  [Fiercely.^  Not  a  word  of  my  father  ! 

Crockstead.  Your  father  is  a  gentleman.  The 
breed  is  rare,  and  very  fine  when  you  get  it.  But  he 
is  exceedingly  poor.  People  marry  for  money  nowa- 
days ;  and  your  mother  will  be  very  unhappy  if  this 
marriage  of  ours  falls  through. 

Aline.  [Moving  a  step  towards  him.]  Is  it  to  oblige 
my  mother,  then,  that  you  desire  to  marry  me  ? 

Crockstead.  Well,  no.  But  you  see  I  must  marry 
some  one,  in  mere  self-defence ;  and  honestly,  I  think 
you  will  do  at  least  as  well  as  any  one  else.  [Alinb 
bursts  out  laughing.]     That  strikes  you  as  funny  ? 

Aline.  If  you  had  the  least  grain  of  chivalrous 
feeling,  you  would  realise  that  the  man  who  could 

speak  to  a  woman  as  you  have  spoken  to  me 

[She  paViSes. 

Obockstead.  Yes? 

Aline.  I  leave  you  to  finish  the  sentence. 

Crockstead.  Thank  you.  I  will  finish  it  my  own 
way.  I  will  say  that  when  a  woman  deliberately 
tries  to  wring  an  offer  of  marriage  from  a  man  whom 


46  A  MARRIAGE  HAS 

she  does  not  love,  she  deserves  to  be  spoken  to  as  I 
have  spoken  to  you,  Lady  Aline. 

Aline.  [^Scornfully P[  Love !  What  has  love  to  do 
with  marriage  ? 

Crockstead.  That  remark  rings  hollow.  You  have 
been  good  enough  to  tell  me  of  your  cousin,  whom 
you  did  love 

Aline.  Well? 

Crockstead,  And  with  whom  you  would  have 
eloped,  had  your  mother  not  prevented  you. 

Aline.  I  most  certainly  should. 

Crockstead.  So  you  see  that  at  one  period  of  your  life 
you  thought  differently. — You  were  very  fond  of  him  ? 

Aline.  I  have  told  you. 

Crockstead.  [3{editaiively.'\  If  I  had  been  he, 
mother  or  no  mother,  money  or  no  money,  I  would 
have  carried  you  off.  I  fancy  it  must  be  pleasant  to 
be  loved  by  you,  Lady  Aline. 

Aline.  [Droppivg  a  mock  curtsey,  as  she  sits  on  the 
sofa.]  You  do  me  too  much  honour, 

Crockstead.  [Still  thoughtful,  moving  about  the 
room.]  Next  to  being  king,  it  is  good  to  be  maker  of 
kings.     Where  is  this  cousin  now  ? 

Aline.  In  America.  But  might  I  suggest  that  we 
have  exhausted  the  subject  ? 

Crockstead.  Do  you  remember  your  "Arabian 
Nights,"  Lady  Aline? 

Aline.  Vaguely. 

Crockstead.  You  have  at  least  not  forgotten  that 
sublime  Caliph,  Haroun  Al-Raschid  ? 


BEEN  ARRANGED  ....  47 

Aline.  Oh,  no — but  why  ? 

Crockstead.  We  millionaires  are  the  Caliphs  t<r 
day ;    and  we  command   more    faithful    than   ever 
bowed  to  them.     And,  like  that  old  scoundrel  Haroun, 
we   may   at   times   permit   ourselves   a    respectable 
impulse.     What  is  your  cousin's  address  ? 

Aline.  Again  I  ask — why? 

Crockstead.  I  will  put  him  in  a  position  to  marry 
you. 

A  LINE.  [In  extreme  surprise.]  What !         [She  rises. 

Crockstead.  Ob,  don't  be  alarmed,  I'll  manage  it 
pleasantly.  I'll  give  him  tips,  shares,  speculate  for 
him,  make  him  a  director  of  one  or  two  of  my  com- 
panies. He  shall  have  an  income  of  four  thousand  a 
year.     You  can  live  on  that. 

Aline.  You  are  not  serious? 

Crockstead.  Oh  yes ;  and  though  men  may  not 
like  me,  they  always  trust  my  word.     You  may. 

Aline.  And  why  will  you  do  this  thing  ? 

Crockstead.  Call  it  caprice — call  it  a  mere  vulgar 
desire  to  let  my  magnificence  dazzle  you — call  it  the 
less  vulgar  desire  to  know  that  my  money  has  made 
you  happy  with  the  man  you  love. 

Aline.  That  is  generous. 

Crockstead.  I  remember  an  old  poem  I  learnt  at 
school — which  told  how  Frederick  the  Great  coveted 
a  mill  that  adjoined  a  favourite  estate  of  his ;  but  the 
miller  refused  to  sell.  Frederick  could  have  turned 
him  out,  of  course — there  was  not  very  much  public 
opinion  in  those  days— but  he  respected  the  miller's 


48  A    MARRIAGE  HAS 

firmness,  and  left  him  in  solid  possession.  And  mark 
that,  at  that  very  same  time,  he  annexed — in  other 
words  stole — the  province  of  Silesia. 

Aline,  Ah 

Orockstead.  [Moving  to  the  ^fireplace], 
*'  Ce  sont  la  jeux  de  Princes : 
lis  respectent  un  meunier, 
lis  volent  une  province." 

[The  music  stops. 

Alinb,  You  speak  French? 

Orockstead.  I  am  fond  of  it.  It  is  the  true  and 
native  language  of  insincerity. 

Aline.  And  yet  you  seem  sincere. 

Orockstead.  I  am  permitting  myself  that  luxury 
to-night.  I  am  uncorking,  let  us  say,  the  one  bottle 
of  '47  poi-t  left  in  my  cellar. 

Aline.  You  are  not  quite  fair  to  yourself,  perhaps. 

Orockstead.  Do  not  let  this  action  of  mine  cause 
you  too  suddenly  to  alter  your  opinion.  The  verdict 
you  pronounced  before  was,  on  the  whole,  just. 

Aline,  What  verdict? 

Orockstead.  I  was  the  most  unpleasant  person  you 
ever  had  met. 

Aline.  That  w^as  an  exaggeration. 

Orockstead.  The  most  repulsive 

Aline.  [Quicklj/.]  I  did  not  say  that. 

Orockstead.  And  who  prided  himself  on  his  repul- 
siveness.  Very  true,  in  the  main,  and  yet  consider  ! 
My  wealth  dates  back  ten  years ;  till  then  I  had  known 
hunger,  and  every  kind  of  sorrow  and  despair.     I  had 


BEEN  ARRANGED  ....  49 

stretched  out  longing  arms  to  the  world,  but  not  a 
heart  opened  to  me.  And  suddenly,  when  the  taste 
of  men's  cruelty  was  bitter  in  my  mouth,  capricious 
fortune  snatched  me  from  abject  poverty  and  gave  me 
delirious  wealth.  I  was  ploughing  a  barren  field,  and 
flung  up  a  nugget.  From  that  moment  gold  dogged 
my  footsteps.  I  enriched  the  few  friends  I  had — 
they  turned  howlingly  from  me  because  I  did  not 
give  them  more.  I  showered  money  on  whoever  sought 
it  of  me — they  cursed  me  because  it  was  mine  to  give. 
In  my  poverty  there  had  been  the  bond  of  common 
sorrow  between  me  and  my  fellows  :  in  my  wealth  I 
stand  alone,  a  modern  Ishmael,  with  every  man's  hand 
against  me. 

Aline.  [Ge7if.h/.]  Why  do  you  tell  me  this? 

Crocestead.  Because  I  am  no  longer  asking  you  to 
marry  me.  Because  you  are  the  first  person  in  all 
these  years  who  has  been  truthful  and  frank  with  me. 
And  because,  perhaps,  in  the  happiness  that  will,  I 
trust,  be  yours,  I  want  you  to  think  kindly  of  me. 
[She  puts  out  her  hand,  he  takes  tV.]  And  now,  shall 
we  return  to  the  ball-room  ?  The  music  has  stopped  ; 
they  must  be  going  to  supper. 

Aline,  What  shall  I  say  to  the  Marchioness,  my 
mother,  and  the  Duchess,  my  aunt  ? 

Crockstead.  You  will  acquaint  those  noble  ladies 
with  the  fact  of  your  having  refused  me. 

\They  have  both  risen,  and  move  up  the  room 
together. 

9 


50  A  MARRIAGE  HAS 

Aline.  I  shall  be  a  nine  days'  wonder.  And  how 
do  you  propose  to  carry  out  your  little  scheme  ? 

Crockstead.  I  will  take  Saturday's  boat — you  will 
give  me  a  line  to  your  cousin-  I  had  better  state  the 
case  plainly  to  him,  perhaps? 

Aline.  That  demands  consideration. 

Crockstead.  And  I  will  tell  j'ou  what  you  shall  do 
for  me  in  return.     Find  me  a  wife  ! 

Aline,  I? 

Crockstead.  You.  I  beg  it  on  my  knees.  I  give 
you  carte  blanche.  I  undertake  to  propose,  with  my 
eyes  shut,  to  the  woman  you  shall  select. 

Aline.  And  will  you  treat  her  to  the — little  pre- 
liminaries— with  which  you  have  favoured  me  ? 

Crockstead.  No.  I  said  those  things  to  you  because 
I  liked  you. 

Aline.  And  you  don't  intend  to  like  the  other  one  S 

Crockstead.  I  will  marry  her.  I  can  trust  you  to 
find  me  a  loyal  and  intelligent  woman. 

Aline.  In  Society  ? 

Crockstead.  For  preference.  She  will  be  better 
versed  in  spending  money  than  a  governess,  or  country 
parson's  daughter. 

Aline.  But  why  this  voracity  for  marriage  ? 

Crockstead.  Lady  Aline,  I  am  hunted,  pestered, 
worried,  persecuted.  I  have  settled  two  breach  of 
promise  actions  already,  though  Heaven  knows  I  did 
no  more  than  remark  it  was  a  fine  day,  or  enquire 
after  the  lady's  health.  If  you  do  not  help  me,  some 
energetic  woman   will   capture   me — I   feel   it — and 


BEEN  AKBANGED  ....  51 

bully  me  for  the  rest  of  iny  days,  I  raise  a  despairing 
cry  to  you — Find  me  a  wife  ! 

Aline.  Do  you  desire  the  lady  to  have  any — special 
qualifications  ? 

Ckockstead.  No — the  home-grown  article  will  do. 
One  thing,  though — I  should  like  her  to  be — 
merciful. 

Aline.  I  don't  understand. 

Crockstead.  I  have  a  vague  desire  to  do  something 
with  my  money  :  my  wife  might  help  me.  I  should 
like  her  to  have  pity. 

Aline.  Pity  ? 

Crockstead.  In  the  midst  of  her  wealth  I  should 
wish  her  to  be  sorry  for  those  who  are  poor. 

Aline.  Yes.     And,  as  regards  the  rest 

Crockstead.  The  rest  I  leave  to  you,  with  absolute 
confidence.     You  will  help  me? 

Aline.  I  will  try.     My  choice  is  to  be  final  ? 

Crockstead.  Absolutely. 

Aline.  I  have  an  intimate  friend — I  wonder 
whether  she  would  do? 

Crockstead,  Tell  me  about  her. 

Aline.  She  and  I  made  our  debut  the  same  season. 
Like  myself  she  has  hitherto  been  her  mother's  despair. 

Crockstead.  Because  she  has  not  yet 

Aline.  Married — yes.  Oh,  if  men  knew  how  hard 
the  lot  is  of  the  portionless  girl,  who  has  to  sit,  and 
smile,  and  wait,  with  a  very  desolate  heart — they 
would  think  less  unkindly  of  her,  perhaps — [She 
smiles.]  But  I  am  digressing,  too. 


52  A  MARRIAGE  HAS 

Orockstead,  Tell  me  more  of  your  friend. 

Aline.  She  is  outwardly  hard,  and  a  trifle  bitter, 
but  I  fancy  sunshine  would  thaw  her.  There  has  not 
been  much  happiness  in  her  life. 

Orockstead.  "Would  she  marry  a  man  she  did  not  love? 

Aline.  If  she  did  you  would  not  respect  her  ? 

Crockstead.  I  don't  pay  that.  She  will  be  your 
choice;  and  therefore  deserving  of  confidence.  Is 
she  handsome? 

ALiNEi  Well — no. 

Orockstead.  [With  a  quick  glance  at  her.]  That's  a 
pity.     But  we  can't  have  everything. 

Aline.  No,  There  is  one  episode  in  her  life  that 
I  feel  she  would  like  you  to  know 

Orockstead.  If  you  are  not  betraying  a  confi- 
dence  

Aline.  [Looking  down,]  No.  She  loved  a  man, 
years  ago,  very  dearly.  They  were  too  poor  to  marry, 
but  they  vo'w'^d  to  wait.  Within  six  months  she 
learned  that  be  was  engaged. 

Orockstead.  Ah ! 

Aline.  To  a  fat  and  wealthy  widow 

Orockstead.  The  old  story. 

Aline.  Who  was  touring  through  India,  and  had 
been  made  love  to  by  every  unmarried  officer  in  the 
regiment.     She  chose  him. 

Orockstead.  India  ?  [He  moves  towards  her."] 

Aline.   Yes. 

Orockstead.  I  have  an  idea  that  I  shall  like  your 
friend.     [He  takes  her  hand  in  Ai».] 


BEEN  ARRANGED  ....  53 

Alini.  I  shall  be  careful  to  tell  her  all  that  you 
said  to  me — at  the  beginning 

Crockstead.  It  is  quite  possible  that  my  remarks 
may  not  apply  after  all. 

Aline.  But  I  believe  myself  from  what  I  know  of 
you  both  that — if  she  marries  you — it  will  not  be — 
?.ltogether — for  your  money. 

Crockstead.  Listen — they're  pliying  "  God  Save 
the  King."     Will  you  be  my  wife,  Aline  ? 

Aline.  Yes — Harry. 

[ZZe  takes  her  in  his  arms  and  kisses  her. 


CURTAIN 


THE  MAN  ON  THE  KEKB 

A  DUOLOGUR 


THE  PERSONS  OF  THE  PLAY 

Joseph  Matthews 
Maby  (his  Wife) 

Time — The  present 
ScEKE— 27wiir  home  in  the  West  End 


Produced  at  the 
Aldwyeh  Tlipatre 
on  March  24^  1908 


THE  MAN  ON  THE  KERB 

Scene:  An  underground  room,  bare  of  any  furniture 
except  two  or  three  broken  chairs,  a  tattered  mattress 
on  the  stone  floor  and  an  old  trunk.  On  a  packing- 
chest  are  a  few  pots  and  pans  and  a  kettle.  A  few 
sacks  are  spread  over  the  floor,  close  to  the  empty 
grate ;  the  walls  are  discoloured,  toith  plentifid 
signs  of  damp  oozing  through.  Close  to  the  door, 
at  back,  is  a  window,  looking  on  to  the  area ;  two 
of  the  panes  are  broken  and  stuffed  with  paper. 

On  the  mattress  a  child  is  sleeping,  covered 
with  a  tattered  old  mantle;  Mary  is  bending 
over  her,  crooning  a  song.  The  woma/n  is  still 
quite  young,  and  must^  have  been  very  pretty  ;  but 
her  cheeks  are  hollow  and  there  are  great  circles 
round  her  eyes  ;  her  face  is  very  pale  and  bloodless. 
Her  dress  is  painfidly  icorn  and  shabby,  but  dis- 
plays pathetic  attempts  at  neatness.  The  only 
light  in  the  room  comes  from  the  street  lamp  on 
the  pavement  above. 

Joe  comes  down  the  area  steps,  and  enters.     His 

clothes   are   of  the   familiar  colourless,    shapeless 

kind  one  sees  at    street  corners;  he    xcould   be  a 

pleasant-looking  young  fellow  enough  were  it  not 

59 


60  THE  MAN  ON  THE  KERB 

that  his  face  is  abnormally  lined,  and  pinched, 
and  weather-beaten.  He  shambles  in,  with  the 
intense  weariness  of  a  man  ivho  has  for  hours  been 
forcing  benumbed  limbs  to  move;  he  shakes  him- 
self,  on  the  threshold,  dog-fashion,  to  get  rid  of 
the  rain.  Mary  frst  makes  sure  that  the  child 
is  asleep,  then  rises  eagerly  and  goes  to  him.  Her 
face  falls  as  she  notes  his  air  of  dejection, 

Makt.  [Wistfully.]  Nothing,  Joe  ? 

Joe.  Nothing.     Not  a  farthing.     Nothing. 

[Mary  turns  away  and  checks  a  moan. 

Joe.  Nothing  at  all.  Same  as  yesterday — worse 
than  yesterday — I  did  bring  home  a  few  coppers — 
And  you  ? 

Mary.  A  lady  gave  Minnie  some  food 

Joe.  [Heartily.]  Bless  her  for  that ! 

Mary.  Took  her  into  the  pastrycook's,  Joe 

Joe.  And  the  kiddie  had  a  tuck-out?  Thank 
God  !     And  you  ? 

Mary.  Minnie  managed  to  hide  a  great  big  bun 
for  me. 

Joe.  The  lady  didn't  give  you  anything  ? 

Mary.  Only  a  lecture,  Joe,  for  bringing  the  child 
out  on  so  bitter  a  day. 

Joe.  [ITiiA  a  sour  laugh,  as  he  sits  on  a  chair.] 
Ho,  ho !  Always  so  ready  with  their  lectures, 
aren't  they  ?  "  Shouldn't  beg,  my  man  !  Never  give 
to  beggars  in  the  street !  " — Look  at  me,  I  said  to  one 
of  them.     Feel  my  arm.     Tap  my  chest.      I  tell  you 


THE  MAN  ON  THE  KERl?  61 

I'm  starving,  and  they're  starving  at  home. — "  Never 
give  to  beggars  in  the  street," 

Mary.  [Laying  a  hand  on  his  arm.]  Oh,  Joe,  you're 
wefc  ! 

Joe.  It's  been  raining  bard  the  last  three  hours 
— pouring.  My  stars,  it's  cold.  Couldn't  we  raise  a 
bit  of  flre,  Slary  ? 

Mary.  With  what,  Joe  ? 

Joe.  [After  a  look  round,  auddenh/  getting  up,  seiz- 
ing a  ricketty  chair  by  the  wall,  breaking  off  the  legsJ] 
With  this  !  Wonderful  fine  furniture  they  give  you 
on  the  Hire  System — so  solid  and  substantial — as 
advertised.  [He  breaks  the  flimsy  thing  up,  as  he 
speaks^  And  to  think  we  paid  for  this  muck,  in  the 
days  we  were  human  beings — paid  about  three  times 
its  value !  And  to  think  of  the  poor  devils,  poor 
devils  like  us,  who  sweated  their  life-blood  out  to 
make  it — and  of  the  blood-sucking  devils  who  sold  it 
and  got  fat  on  it — and  now  back  it  goes  to  the  devil 
it  came  from,  and  we  can  at  least  get  warm  for  a 
minute.  [He  crams  the  woodj  into  the  grate.]  Got  any 
paper,  Mary  ? 

Mary.  [Taking  an  old  newspaper  from  the  trunk.] 
Here,  Joe. 

Joe.  That  will  help  to  build  up  a  fire.  [He  glances 
at  it,  then  lays  it  carefully  underneath  the  wood.  Mary 
gets  lamp  from  table,]  The  Daily  Something  or  other 
—that  tells  the  world  what  a  happy  people  we  are — 
how  proud  of  belonging  to  an  Empire  on  which  the 
eun  never  sets.     And  I'd  sell  Gibraltar  to-night  for  a 


62  THE  MAN  ON  THE  KERB 

sausage  with  mashed  potatoes ;  and  let  Russia  take 
India  if  some  one  would  give  me  a  clerkship  at 
a  pound  a  week. — There,  in  you  go!  A  match, 
Mary  ? 

Mary.  [Standing/  above  Joe,  handing  him  one.]  Oh, 
Joe,  be  careful — we've  only  two  left ! 

Joe.  I'll  be  careful.  Wait,  though — I'll  see 
whether  there's  a  bit  of  tobacco  still  in  my  pipe. 
[He  fishes  the  pipe  out  of  his  pocket.]  A  policeman 
who  wai-aed  my  away  from  the  kerb  gave  me  some 
tobacco.  "  Mustn't  beg,"  he  said.  '*  Got  a  pipe  ? 
Well,  here's  some  tobacco."  I  believe  he'd  have 
given  me  money.  But  it  was  the  first  kind  word  I 
had  heard  all  day,  and  it  choked  me. — There's  just  a 
bit  left  at  the  bottom.  [He  hustles,]  Now,  first  the 
fire.  \He  puts  the  vtatch  to  the  paper — it  kindles.]  And 
then  my  pipe.  [The  fire  hums  up ;  he  throws  himself 
in  front  of  ti.]  Boo-o-oh,  I'm  sizzling.  ...  I  got  so 
wet  that  I  felt  the  water  running  into  my  lungs — my 
feet  didn't  seem  to  belong  to  me — and  as  for  my 
head  and  nose !  [7at«ws.]  Well,  smoke's  good — by 
the  powers,  I'm  getting  warm — come  closer  to  it, 
Mary.  It's  a  little  after  midnight  now — and  I  left 
home,  this  fine,  luxurious  British  home,  just  as  soon 
as  it  was  light.  And  I've  ti-amped  the  streets  all 
day.  Net  result,  a  policeman  gave  me  a  pipeful  of 
tobacco,  I  lunched  off  a  bit  of  bread  that  I  saw  float- 
ing  down  the  gutter — and  I  dined  off  the  kitchen 
smell  of  the  Caf6  Royal.     That's  my  day. 

Mary.  [Stroking  his  hand.]  Poor  boy,  poor  boy  I 


I 


THE  MAN  ON  THE  KERB  63 

Joe.  I  stood  for  an  hour  in  Leicester  Square 
when  the  theatres  emptied,  thinking  I  might  earn 
a  copper,  calling  a  cab,  or  something.  There 
they  were,  all  sti'eaming  out,  happy  and  clean  and 
warm — broughams  and  motor-cars — supper  at  the 
Savoy  and  the  Carlton — and  a  hundred  or  two  of  us 
others  in  the  gutter,  hungry — looking  at  them.  They 
went  oflf  to  their  supper — it  was  pouring,  and  I  got 
soaked — and  there  I  stood,  dodging  the  policemen, 
doilging  the  horses'  heads  and  the  motors — and  it  was 
always — get  away,  you  loafer,  get  away — get  away — 
get  away 

Mary.  We've  done  nothing  to  deserve  it,  Joe 


Joe.  [With  sudden  fii/ry.]  Deserve  it !  What  have 
I  ever  done  wrong !  Wasn't  juy  fault  the  firm  went 
bankrupt  and  I  couldn't  get  another  job.  I've  a 
first-rate  character — I'm  respectable — what's  the  use  ? 
I  want  to  work — they  won't  let  me  I 

Mary.  That  illness  of  mine  ate  up  all  our  savings. 
O  Joe,  I  wish  I  had  died ! 

Joe.  And  left  me  alone  ?  That's  not  kind  of  you, 
Mary.  How  about  Mrs.  Willis  ?  Is  she  worrying 
about  the  rent  ? 

Mary.  Well,  she'd  like  to  have  it,  of  course — 
they're  so  dreadfully  poor  themselves — but  she  says 
}he  won't  turn  us  out.  And  I'm  going  to-morrow  to 
her  daughter's  upstairs — she  makes  matchboxes,  you 
know — and  I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't  try — I  could 
earn  nearly  a  shilling  a  day. 

Joe.  a  shilling  a  day !     Princely !  [His  pipe  goes 


64  THE  MAN  ON  THE  KERB 

out.  He  takes  a  last  puff  at  it,  squints  into  it  to  make 
sure  all  the  tobacco  is  gone,  then  lays  it  down  with  a  sigh.l 
I  reckon  7'11  try  making  'em  too.  I  went  to  the 
Vestry  again,  this  morning,  to  see  whether  they'd 
take  me  as  sweeper — but  they've  thirty  names  down, 
ahead  of  me.  I've  tried  chopping  wood,  but  I  can't — 
I  begin  to  cough  the  third  stroke — there's  something 
wrong  with  me  inside,  somewhere.  I've  tried  every 
Institution  on  God's  earth — and  there  are  others  be- 
fore me,  and  there  is  no  vacancy,  and  I  mustn't  beg, 
and  I  mustn't  worry  the  gentlemen.  A  shilling  a 
day — can  one  earn  as  much  as  that !  Why,  Mary, 
that  will  be  fourteen  shillings  a  week — an  income ! 
We'll  do  it ! 

Mary.  It's  not  quite  a  shilling,  Joe — you  have  to 
find  your  own  paste  and  odds  and  ends.  And  of 
course  it  takes  a  few  weeks  to  learn,  before  you  begin 
to  make  any  money. 

Joe.  [Crestfallen.']  Does  it  though  ?  And  what  are 
we  going  to  do,  those  few  weeks  ?  I  thought  there 
was  a  catch  in  it,  somewhere,  [He  gets  up  and  stretches 
himself.]  Well,  here's  a  free-born  Englishman,  able  to 
conduct  correspondence  in  three  languages,  book- 
keeping by  double  entry,  twelve  years'  experience — 
and  all  he's  allowed  to  do  is  to  starve.  [He  stretches 
himself  again.] 

But  in  spite  of  all  temptations 

To  belong  to  other  nations 

[With  sudden  passion.]  God  !  I  wish  I  were  a  Zulu  I 

Mary.  [Edging  to  him.]  Joe 


THE  MAN  ON  THE  KERB  65 

Job.  [Turiiing.]  Well? 

Mary.  Joe,  Joe,  we've  tried  very  hard,  haven't 
we? 

Job.  Tried !  Is  there  a  job  in  this  world  we'd 
refuse  ?  Is  there  anything  we'd  turn  up  our  nose  at  ? 
Is  there  any  chance  we've  neglected  ? 

Mary.  [Stealing  nervously  to  him  and  laying  a 
hand  on  his  arm.]  Joe 

Joe.  [Raising  his  head  and  looking  at  her.'\  Yes — 
what  is  it  ?  [She  stands  timidly  with  downcast  eyes.] 
Well  ?     Out  with  it,  Mary ! 

Mary.  [Suddenly.]  It's  this,  Joe. 

[She  goes  feverishly  to  the  mattress,  and  from 
underneath  it  she  pulls  out  a  big,  fat  purse 
which  she  hands  him, 

Jos.  [Staring^  A  purse  1 

Mary.  [Nodding.]  Yes. 

Joe.     You 

Mary.     Found  it. 

Joe.  [Loohing  at  her.]  Found  ? 

Mary.  [Awkwardly,]  In  a  way  I  did — yes. 

Joe.    How  ? 

Mary.  It  came  on  to  rain,  Joe — and  I  went  into 
a  Tube  Station — and  was  standing  by  a  bookstall, 
showing  Minnie  the  illustrated  papers — and  an  old 
lady  bought  one — and  she  took  out  her  purse — this 
purse — and  paid  for  it — and  laid  the  purse  on  the 
board  while  she  fumbled  to  pick  up  her  skirts — and 
then  some  one  spoke  to  her — a  friend,  I  suppose — 
and — there  were  lots  of  people  standing  about — I 

£ 


66  THE  MAN  ON  THE  KERB 

don't  know  bow  it  was — I  was  out  in  the  street,  with 
Minnie 


Joe.     You  had  the  purse  ? 

Mary,    Yes 

Joe.     No  one  followed  you  ? 

Mary.  No  one.  I  couldn't  run,  as  I  had  to  carry 
Minnie. 

Joe.     What  made  you  do  it  ? 

Mary.  I  don't  know — something  in  me  did  it — 
She  put  the  purse  down  just  by  the  side  of  my  hand 
— my  fingers  clutched  it  before  I  knew — and  I  was 
out  in  the  street. 

Joe.     How  much  is  there  in  it  ? 

Mary.     I  haven't  looked.  Joe. 

Joe.  [Wondering.]  You  haven't  looked  ? 

Mary.     No  ;  I  didn't  dare. 

Joe.  [Sonvwfidly .]  I  didn't  think  we'd  come  to 
this,  Mary. 

Mary.  [Desperately.]  We've  got  to  do  something. 
Before  we  can  earn  any  money  at  making  matchboxes 
we'll  have  to  spend  some  weeks  learning.  And 
you've  not  had  a  decent  meal  for  a  month — nor  have 
I.  If  there's  money  inside  this  purse  you  can  get 
some  clothes — and  for  me  too — I  need  them  !  It's 
not  as  though  the  old  lady  would  miss  it — she's  rich 
enough — her  cloak  was  real  sable — and  no  one  can 
find  us  out — they  can't  tell  one  piece  of  money  from 
the  other.  It's  heavi^  Joe — I  think  there's  a  lot 
inside. 


THE  MAN  ON  THE  KERB  67 

Joe.  [Weighing  it  mechanically.]  Yes  —  it's 
heavy 

Mart.  [Uagerli/.]  Open  it,  Joe. 

Joe.  [Turning  to  her  again.]  Why  didu't  you  ? 

Mary.  I  just  thought  I'd  wait — I'd  an  idea  some- 
thing might  have  happened ;  that  some  one  might  have 
stopped  you  in  the  street,  some  one  with  a  heart — and 
that  he'd  have  come  in  with  you  to-night — and  seen 
us — seen  Minnie — and  said — "  Well,  here's  money — 
I'll  put  you  on  your  legs  again  " — And  then  we'd  have 
given  the  purse  back,  Joe. 

Joe.  [As  he  still  mechanically  balances  it  in  his  hand^ 
Yes. 

Mary.  Can't  go  on  like  this,  can  we  ?  You'll 
cough  all  night  again,  as  you  did  yesterday— and  the 
stuff  they  gave  you  at  the  Dispensary's  no  good.  If 
you  had  clothes,  you  might  get  some  sort  of  a  job 
perhaps — you  know  you  had  to  give  up  trying  because 
you  were  so  shabby. 

Joe,  They  laugh  at  me. 

Mary.  [With  a  glance  at  hei'self,]  And  I'm  really 
ashamed  to  walk  through  the  streets 

Joe.  I  know — though  I'm  getting  used  to  it.  Be- 
sides, there's  the  kiddie.     Let's  have  a  look  at  her. 

Mary.  Be  careful  you  don't  wake  her,  Joe  1 

Joe.  There's  a  fire. 

Mary.  She'll  be  hungry. 

Joe.  You  said  that  she  had  some  food  ? 

Mary.  That  was  at  three  o'clock.  And  little 
things  aren't  like  us — tuey  want  their  regular  meals 


68  THE  MAN  ON  THE  KERB 

Night  after  night  she  has  been  hungry,  and  I've 
had  nothing  to  give  her.  That's  why  I  took  the 
purse. 

Job.  [Still  holding  it  mechanically  and  staring  at  it.] 
Yes.     And,  after  all,  why  not  ? 

Mary.  We  can  get  the  poor  little  thing  some  warm 
clothes,  some  good  food 

Joe.  [Uiider  his  breath.]  A  thief's  daughter. 

[Covers  his  face  with  his  hands. 

Mary.  Joe ! 

Joe.  Not  nice,  is  it  ?  Can't  be  helped,  of  course. 
And  who  cares?  For  three  months  this  game  has 
gone  on — we  getting  shabbier,  wretcheder,  hungi'ier — 
no  one  bothers — all  the}/  say  is  "  keep  ofi*  the  pave 
ment."     Let's  see  what's  in  the  purse. 

Mary.  [liJagerly.']  Yes,  yes  1 

Joe.  [Lifting  his  head  as  he  is  on  the  point  of  opening 
the  purse^  That's  the  policeman  passing. 

Mary.  [Impatiently,]  Never  mind  that 

Joe.  [Turning  to  the  purse  again.]  First  time  in 
my  life  I've  been  afi'aid  when  I  heard  the  policeman. 

[He  has  his  finger  on  the  catch  of  the  purse  when 
he  pauses  for  a  moment — then  acting  on  a 
sudden  impidse,  makes  a  dart  for  the  door, 
opens  it,  and  is  out,  and  top  the  area 
steps. 

Mary.  [With  a  despairing  cry.]  Joe! 

[She  flings  herself  on  the  mattress,  and  soha 
silently,  so  as  not  to  awaken  the  child.    Job 


THE  MAN  ON  THE  KERB  69 

returns,  hanging  his   head,  dragging  one 
foot  hefore  the  other. 

MiRT.  \Still  sobbing ^  but  trying  to  control  herself.] 
Why  did  you  do  that  ? 

Joe.  [^Humhly.'\  I  don't  know 

Maky.  You  gave  it  to  the  policeman  ? 

Joe.  Yes. 

Mary.  What  did  you  tell  him  ? 

Joe.  That  you  had  found  it. 

Mary.  Whore? 

Job.  In  a  Tube  Station.  Picked  it  up  because  we 
were  starving.  That  we  hadn't  opened  it.  And  that 
we  lived  here,  in  this  cellar. 

Mary.  [With  a  little  shake.]  I  expect  he'll  keep  it 
himself  I 

Joe.  [Miserahly .]  Perhaps. 

[There  is  silence  for  a  moment ;  she  has  ceased 
to  cry  ;  suddenly  she  raises  herself  violently 
on  her  elbow. 

Mary.  You  fool !  You  fool ! 

Joe.  [Pleading.]  Mary ! 

Mary.  With  your  stupid  ideas  of  honesty  1  What 
have  they  done  for  you,  or  me  ? 

Joe.  [Dropping  his  head  again.]  It's  the  kiddie,  you 
know — her  being  a  thief's  daughter 

Mary.  Is  that  worse  than  being  the  daughter  of  a 
pair  of  miserable  beggars  ? 

Job  [Under  his  hreathj]  I  suppose  it  is,  some« 
how 

Mary.  You'd  rather  she  went  hungry  ? 


70  THE  MAN  ON  THE  KERB 

Joe.  [.Despairingly.]  I  don't  know  how  it  was— 
hearing  his  tramp  up  there 

Mart.  You  were  afraid  ? 

Joe.  I  don't  want  you  taken  to  prison. 

Mary.  [With  a  wail.]  I'll  be  taken  to  the  gra\reyai'd 
Boon,  in  a  pauper's  coffin  ! 

Joe.  [Starts  suddenly.]  Suppose  we  did  that  ? 

Mary.  [Staring.]  The  workhouse  ? 

Joe.  Why  not,  after  all  ?  That's  what  it  will  come 
to,  sooner  or  later. 

Mary.  They'd  separate  us. 

Joe.  At  least  you  and  the  kiddie'd  have  food. 

Mary.  They'd  separate  us.  And  I  love  you,  Joe. 
My  poor,  poor  Joe !  I  love  you. 

[She  nestles  rtp  to  him  and  takes  his  hand. 

Joe.  [Holding  her  hand  in  his,  and  bending  over 
her.]  You  forgive  me  for  returning  the  purse  ? 

Mary.  [D7vpping  her  head  on  his  shoulder.]  Forgive 
you !  You  were  right.  It  was  the  cold  and  the 
hunger  maddened  me.     You  were  right ! 

Joe.  [Springing  to  his  feet,  loith  svdden  passion. 
Mary  staggers  hack.]  I  wasn't  right — I  was  a  coward, 
a  criminal — a  vile  and  wicked  fool. 

Mary.  [Startled.]  Joe! 

Joe.  I  had  money  there — money  in  my  hand — 
money  that  you  need  so  badly,  you,  the  woman  I  love 
with  all  my  ragged  soul — money  that  would  have  put 
food  into  the  body  of  my  little  girl — money  that  was 
mine,  that  belonged  to  me — and  I've  given  it  back, 
because  of  my  rotten  honesty  1     What  right  have  I  to 


THE  MAN  ON  THE  KERB  71 

be  honest?    They've  made  a  dog  of  me — what  busi- 
ness bad  I  to  remember  I  was  a  man  ? 

Mary.  [Following  him  and  laying  a  hand  on  his 
arm.]  Hush,  Joe — you'll  wake  Minnie. 

Joe.  [Turning  and  staring  haggardly  at  her.]  I 
could  have  got  clothes — a  job,  perhaps — we  might 
have  left  this  cellar.  We  could  have  gone  out  to- 
morrow and  bought  things — gone  into  shops — we 
might  have  had  food,  coal 

Mary.  Don't,  Joe — what's  the  use?  And  who 
knows — it  may  prove  a  blessing  to  us.  You  told  the 
policeman  where  we  lived  ? 

Job.  a  blessing !  I'll  get  up  to-morrow,  after 
having  coughed  out  my  lungs  all  night — and  I'll  go 
into  the  streets  and  walk  there  from  left  to  right  and 
from  right  to  left,  standing  at  this  comer  and  at  that, 
peering  into  men's  faces,  watching  people  go  to  their 
shops  and  their  offices,  people  who  are  warm  and 
comfortable — and  so  it  will  go  on,  till  the  end  comes. 

Mary.  [Standing  very  close  to  him,  almost  in  a 
ivhisp&}%]  Why  not  now,  Joe  ? 

Joe.  [With  a  startled  glance  at  her.]  The  end  ? 

Mary.  There's  no  room  for  us  in  this  world 

Joe.  If  I'd  taken  that  money 

Mary.  It's  too  late  for  that  now.  And  I'm  glad 
you  didn't — yes,  I  am — I'm  glad.  We'll  go  before 
God  clean-handed.  And  we'll  say  to  Him  we  didn't 
Bteal,  or  do  anything  He  didn't  want  us  too.  And 
we'll  tell  Him  we've  died  because  people  wouldn't 
allow  us  to  live. 


72  THE  MAN  ON  THE  lOERB 

Job.  [With  a  shudder.]  No.  Not  that — ^we'Il  wait, 
Mary.     Don't  speak  of  that. 

Mart,  [Wistfully.]  You've  thought  of  it  too  ? 

Joe.  Thought  of  it !  Don't,  Mary,  don't  I  It's  bad 
enough,  in  the  night,  when  I  lie  there  and  think  of 
to-morrow !     Something  will  happen — it  must. 

Mart.  What  ?    "We  haven't  a  friend  in  the  world. 

Joe.  I  may  meet  some  one  I  used  to  know. 

Mart.  You've  met  them  before  —  they  always 
refuse 

Joe.  [Passionately/.]  I've  done  nothing  wrong — I 
haven't  drunk  or  gambled — I  can't  help  being  only  a 
clerk,  and  unable  to  do  heavy  work  I  I  can't  help 
my  lungs  being  weak  I  I've  a  wife  and  a  child, 
like  other  people — and  all  we  ask  is  to  be  allowed  to 
live! 

Mart.  [Pleading.]  Let's  give  it  up,  Joe.  Go  away 
together,  you'd  sleep  without  coughing.  Sleep,  that's 
all.     And  God  will  be  kinder  than  men. 

Joe.  [Groaning.]  Don't,  Mary — don't ! 

Mary.  Joe,  I  can't  stand  it  any  longer — I  can't. 
Not  only  myself — but  Minnie — Joe,  it's  too  much  for 
me  !  I  can't  stand  Minnie  crying,  and  asking  me  for 
her  breakfast,  as  she  will  in  the  morning.  Joe,  dear 
Joe,  let  there  be  no  morning ! 

Joe.  [Completely  overcome.]  Oh,  Mary,  Mary  I 

Mary.  It's  not  your  fault,  dear — you've  done  what 
you  could.  Not  your  fault  they  won't  let  you  work — 
you've  tried  hard  enough.  And  no  woman  ever  had 
a  better  husband  than  you've  been  to  me.    I  love  you, 


THE  MAN  ON  THE  KERB  7S 

dear  Joe.     And  let's  do  it — let's  make  an  end.     And 
take  Minnie  with  us. 

Joe.  [Springing  up.]  Mary,  I'll  steal  something  to- 
morrow. 

Mary.  And  they'd  seed  you  to  prison.  Besides, 
ihen  God  would  be  angry.  Now  we  can  go  to  Him 
and  need  not  be  ashamed.  Let  us,  dear  Joe — oh,  do 
let  us  I     I'm  so  tired  1 

Joe.  No. 

Mary.  [SorrowfuUi/.']  You  won't  ? 

Joe,  [Doggedly/.]  No.     We'll  go  to  the  workhouse. 

Mary.  You've  seen  them  in  there,  haven't  you  ? 

Joe.  Yes. 

Mary.  You've  seen  them  standing  at  the  window, 
staring  at  the  world  ?  And  they'd  take  you  away 
from  me. 

Joe.  That's  better  than 

Mary.  [Firmlt/.]  I  won't  do  it,  Joe.  I've  been  a 
good  wife  to  you — I've  been  a  good  mother  :  and  I 
love  you,  though  I'm  ragged  and  have  pawned  all  my 
clotlies ;  and  I'll  strangle  myself  rather  than  go  to  the 
workhouse  and  be  shut  away  from  you. 

Joe.  [  With  a  loud  crij.]  No  I  I'll  make  them  give 
me  something;  and  if  I  ?cave  to  kill,  it  shan't  be  my 
wife  and  child  1    To-morrow  I'll  come  home  with  food 

and  money — to-morrow 

[There  is  a  sudden  wail  from  the  child ;  Joe 
stops  and  stares  at  her  ;  Mary  goes  quichly 
to  the  mattress  and  soothes  the  little  girl. 

Mary.  Hush,  dear,  hush — no,  it's  not  morning  yet, 


74  THE  MAN  ON  THE  KERB 

not  time  for  breakfast.  Go  to  sleep  again,  dear.  Yea, 
daddy's  come  back,  and  things  are  going  to  be  all 
right  now — No,  dear,  you  can't  be  hungry,  reall}' — 
remember  those  beautiful  cakes.  Go  to  sleep,  Minnie, 
dear.  You're  cold  ?  [She  takes  off"  her  ragged  shau-l 
and  vyrajjs  it  round  the  childl\     There,  dear,  you  won't 

be  cold  now.     Go  to  sleep,  Minnie 

[The  child's  wail  dies  away,  as  Mart  soothes 
her  bach  to  slee}'). 
Joe.  [Staggering  forward  with  a  sudden  cry.'\  God, 
0  God,  give  us  bread  I 


THE   CURTAIN    SLOWLY    FALLS 


I 


THE  OPEN  DOOR 


THE  PERSONS  OF  THE  PLAY 

Sib  Gboffbey  Tkansom 
Ladt  Toeminstes 


THE  OPEN  DOOR 

Scene  :  The  drawing-room  of  Lord  Torminster's  cot- 
tage by  the  sea.  It  is  2  a.m.  of  a  fine  July  night; 
the  French  windows  are  open  on  to  the  lavm.  The 
room  is  dark ;  in  an  armchair,  Sir  Geoffrey 
Transom,  a  man  of  forty,  with  a  frank,  pleasant 
face,  is  seated,  deep  in  thought.  Suddenly  the  door 
opens,  and  Lady  Torminster  appears  and  switches 
on  the  light.    She  starts  at  seeing  Sir  Geoffrey. 

Lady  Torminster.  Oh  ! 

Sir  Geoffrey.  [Rising.^  Hullo  !  Don't  be  afraid — 
it's  only  I ! 

Lady  Torminster.  What  a  start  you  gave  me 
Why  haven't  you  gone  to  bed  ? 

Sir  Geoffrey.  I'm  tired  of  going  to  bed.  One 
always  has  to  get  up  again,  and  it  becomes  mono- 
tonous.    Why  haven't  you  gone  to  sleep  ? 

Lady  Torminster.  I  don't  know — it's  too  hot,  or 
something.     I've  come  for  a  book. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  Let  me  choose  one  for  you. 

[^He  goes  to  the  table. 

Lady  Torminster.  Why  were  you  sitting  in  the 
dark? 

79 


80  THE  OPEN  DOOR 

SiE  GEOFrREY.  Because  the  light  annoyed  me. 
What  sort  of  book  will  you  have  ?  A  red  one  or  a 
green  one  ? 

Lady  Torminstee.  Is  there  a  virtue  in  the  colour 
of  the  binding  ? 

Sir  Geoffrey.  Why  not?  They're  all  the  samo 
inside.  There  are  three  hundred  ways,  they  say,  of 
cooking  a  potato — there  are  as  many  of  dressing  up  a 
lie,  and  calling  it  a  novel.  But  it's  always  the  same 
old  lie.  Here  take  this.  [He  hands  her  a  hook.] 
Popular  Astronomy.     That  will  send  you  to  sleep. 

Lady  Torminster.  The  stars  frighten  me.  But  I'll 
try  it.     Good-night. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  Good-night. 

Lady  Torminster.  And  you  really  had  better  go  to 
bed. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  I  mo^e  as  an  amendment  that  you 
sit  doAvn  and  talk. 

Lady  Torminster.  At  this  time  of  night ! 

Sir  Geoffrey.  Why  not?  It's  day  in  the  Anti- 
podes, 

Lady  Torminster.  And  in  this  attire  ! 

[AS7ie  (/lances  at  her  2Jcignoir. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  Pooh !  You  are  more  dressed  than 
you  were  at  dinner.  That's  awfully  rude,  isn't  it  ? 
But  then,  you  see,  you're  not  my  hostess  now — you're 
a  spirit,  walking  in  the  night.  One  can't  be  polite  to 
spirits.    Sit  down,  oh  shade,  and  let  us  converse. 

Lady  Torminster.  [Resitatiyij.]  I  don't  know 

Sir  Geoffrey.  The  household  have  all  retired  ;  and 


THE  OPEN  DOOR  81 

we  will  make  this  concession  to  Mrs.  Grundy — we 
will  leave  the  door  open.  There  !  [He  flings  it  openl] 
The  Open  Door  !  Centuries  ago,  when  I  was  alive,  I 
remember  paragraphs  with  that  heading. 

Lady  Torminsteu.  \Laughing.'\  So  you're  not  alive 
now  I 

Sir  Geoffrey.  Sir  Geoffrey  Transom  ceased  to  be 
when  he  said  good-night  to  Lady  Toiminster.  Sir 
Geoffrey  is  upstairs  asleep.  So  is  her  ladyship.  We 
are  their  souls.     Let  us  talk. 

Lady  Tosminster.  You  are  in  your  whimsical 
mood. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  And  you  in  your  wrapper — peignoir 
— tea  gown — it  don't  matter  what  you  call  it.  You 
look — jolly.  Ridiculous  word — I  don't  mean  that  at 
all.  You  look — you.  More  you  than  I've  seen  you  for 
years.  Sh — don't  interrupt.  Shades  never  do  that.  By 
the  way,  do  you  know  that  the  old  lumber-room,  my 
owner — my  corporeal  sheath — means  to  go  away  in  the 
morning,  before  you  are  up  ? 

Lady  Torjiinster.  Sir  Geoffrey  1  What  nonsense  I 
You've  promised  to  stay  a  month ! 

Sir  Geoffrey.  I  assure  you  I  have  been  charged  to 
invent  fitting  and  appropriate  lies  to  account  for  the 
ridiculous  creature's  abrupt  departure.  The  man 
Transom  is  a  poor  liar. 

Lady  Torminster.  You  are  making  me  giddy. 
Would  you  mind  putting  on  your  body  ?  I've  not 
been  introduced  to  your  soul. 

Sir  Geoffrey.     [Springing  up  with  a  floicrish.l 

r 


82  THE  OPEN  DOOR 

How  very  remiss  of  me!  Permit  me.  Gertrude- 
this  is  Geoffrey.  You  have  often  heard  me  speak 
of  him. 

Lady  Torminstek.  [Rising.]  I  think  I'll  go  to  bed. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  Now  that  is  preposterous.  Jack,  my 
dear  old  friend — the  best  and  only  friend  I  have  in  the 
•world — is  slumbering  peacefully  upstairs,  and  Jack's 
wife  is  reluctant  to  talk  to  Jack's  old  pal  because  the 
sun  happens  to  be  hidden  on  the  other  side  of  the  globe. 
Lady  Torminster,  sit  down.  If  you're  good  you  shall 
have  a  cigarette. 

Lajdy  Torminster.  [Sitting.]  Well,  just  one.  And 
when  I've  finished  it,  I'll  go. 

Sib  Geoffrey.  Agreed. 

[He  hands  her  the  box  ;  she  takes  a  cigarette  ; 
he  strikes  a  match  and  holds  it  for  her ;  ha 
then  takes  a  cigarette  himself,  and  lights  it. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  And,  while  smoking  it,  remember 
Penelope's  web.     For  I've  heaps  of  things  to  tell  you. 

Lady  Torminster.  They'll  keep  till  to-morrow. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  That's  a  fearful  delusion.  Nothing 
keeps.     There  is  one  law  in  the  universe :  NOW. 

Lady  Torminster.  I  want  to  know  what  you  mean 
by  this  nonsense  about  your  going. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  [Pujing  out  smoke.]  Yes — I'm  off  in 
the  morning.  It  has  occurred  to  me  that  I  haven't 
been  to  China.  Now  that  is  a  serious  omission.  How 
can  I  face  my  forefathers,  and  confess  to  them  that  I 
haven't  seen  the  land  where  the  YeUow  Labou;^  comes 
from? 


THE  OPEN  DOOR  83 

Lady  Torminster,  China  has  waited  a  long  time — 
a  month  more  or  less  will  make  no  difference.  The5 
are  a  patient  race. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  There  is  gipsy  blood  in  my  veins — 
I  must  wander — I'm  restless.  .  .  .  Not  like  Jack — 
he's  untroubled — he  can  sleep.  Jack's  a  fine  sleeper, 
isn't  he? 

Lady  Torminster.  Yes. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  Calm,  serene,  untroubled,  with  the 
conscience  of  a  babe — one,  two,  three,  he  sleeps.  He 
and  I  have  had  some  rare  times  together.  I've  been 
roped  to  him  on  the  Andes — he  shot  a  tiger  that  was 
about  to  scrunch  me — I  rubbed  his  nose  when  it  was 
frost-bitten.  He  saved  my  life — I  saved  his  nose. 
I  always  maintain  that  the  balance  of  gratitude  is  on 
his  side — for  where  would  he  have  been  without  his 
nose? 

Lady  Torminster.  You  are  absurd. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  Would  you  have  married  him  with- 
out a  nose  ? 

Lady  Torminster.  I  might  have. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  Kow  you  know  you  wouldn't.  You'd 
have  been  afraid  of  what  people  would  say.  And 
what  would  he  have  done  when  he  became  short- 
sighted, and  had  to  wear  glasses  ? 

Lady  Torminster.  My  cigarette  has  gone  out. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  \Jumping  up  and  handing  her  the 
Jox,]  Take  another.  Never  re-light  a  cigarette — it's 
like  dragging  up  the  past.     Here. 

Lady  Torminster.  I  said  only  one. 


84  THE  OPEN  DOOR 

Sir  Geoffrey.  This  is  not  the  hour  for  inflexibility. 
The  Medes  and  Persians  have  all  gone  to  bed. 

[She  takes  the  cigarette;  he  lights  it  for  her. 

Lady  Torminster.  Tell  me  why  you  mean  to  leave 
IS.     And  remember — I  shan't  let  this  one  go  out. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  My  explanation  will  be  handed  to 
/ou  with  your  cup  of  tea  in  the  morning. 

Lady  Torminster.  And  you  will  bo  gone  ? 

Sir  Geoffrey.  I  shall  be  gone.  There  is  a  train 
at  7.45 — which  will  be  packed  with  husbands.  I  shall 
breakfast  in  town. 

Lady  Torminster.  Why  ? 

Sir  Geoffrey.  Well,  one  must  breakfast  some- 
where.    It's  a  convention. 

Lady  Torminster.  Sir  Geoffrey,  I  v/ant  you  to  tell 
me  what  this  means. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  Give  your  decision,  said  the  judge 
to  the  arbitrator,  but  never  your  reasons.  I  go, 
because  I  go.  Besides,  has  one  reasons  ?  Why  do 
people  die,  or  get  married,  or  buy  umbrellas  ?  Because 
of  typhoid,  love,  or  the  rain?  Not  at  all.  Isn't 
that  so  ? 

Lady  Torminster.  I  wish  you'd  be  serious. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  I'm  fearfully  serious.  When  Jack 
shot  that  tiger  he  had  to  go  so  near  the  brute  that  he 
held  his  life  in  his  hands.  Do  you  know  what  was 
my  chief  impression  as  I  lay  there,  with  the  ugly  cat's 
paw  upon  my  chest,  beginning  to  rip  me  ? 

Lady  Torminster.  [Shuddering.]  Horrible  I  What  ? 


THE  OPEN  DOOR  85 

Sir  Geoffrey.  I  resented  his  having  eaten  some- 
thing that  smelt  like  onions. 

Lady  Torminster.  [Smiling,]  A  tiger  1 

Sir  Geoffrey.  Onions  may  have  been  his  undoing. 
That's  the  beggar's  skin  on  the  floor.  But  you  should 
have  seen  me  rub  Jack's  nose ! 

Lady  Torminster.  [Warningli/.]  Sir  Geofirey, 
there's  very  little  cigarette  left 

Sir  Geoffrey.  There  are  lots  more  in  the  box — 
and  dawn  is  a  long  way  off.  Hang  it,  Lady  Tor- 
minster, don't  be  in  a  hurry !  Do  you  hear  the  sea 
out  there?  It's  breathing  as  regularly  as  old 
Jack.  And  don't  you  think  this  is  fine?  Here 
we  are,  we  two,  meeting  just  as  we  shall  meet  on 
the  other  side  of  the  Never-Never  Land.  It's  a 
chance  for  a  man  to  speak  to  a  woman,  and  tell  her 
things. 

Lady  Torminster.  What  things ! 

Sir  Geoffrey.  That's  just  it — what  things  ?  What 
have  I  to  say,  after  all  ?  I  am  going  to-morrow 
because  I  am  a  fantastic,  capricious  ass.  Also  because 
I'm  lonely. 

Lady  Torminster.  How  will  China  help  you  ? 

Sir  Geoffrey.  They  colour  it  green  on  the  map — 
and  there  is  such  a  lot  of  it ! 

Lady  Torminster.  You  should  get  married. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  [With  a  sudden  burst  of  passion.] 
You  say  that — you  ! 

\He  starts  hade,  ashamed,  and  hangs  his  head. 
Lady  Torminster  throws  a  quick  glance  at 


86  THE  OPEN  DOOR 

him,  then  looks  ahead  of  her,  puffing  quietly 
at  her  cigarette. 

Lady  Tormlnster,  {Quietly.']  So  that  is  why  you 
are  going  ? 

Sir  Geoffrey.  [With  a  great  sigh  of  relief.']  Now, 
khat  really  is  fine  of  you !  Every  other  woman  in 
the  world  would  have  seized  that  chance  for  a  melo- 
dramatic exit,  "  Good-night,  Sir  Geoffrey ;  I  must 
go  to  my  husband."  "  Good-night,  Lady  Torminster." 
A  clasp  of  the  hand — a  hot  tear — mine — on  your 
wi'ist.     But  you  sit  there.     Splendid  ! 

Lady  Torminster.  I  ask  you  again — is  that  truly 
why  you  are  going  ? 

Sir  Geoffrey.  Well,  yes,  that's  the  fact,  I 
apologise  humbly — it's  so  conventional.     Isn't  it  ? 

Lady  Torminster.  I  suppose  it's  difiicult  for  human 
beings  to  invent  new  situations. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  You've  known  it,  of  course,  all  the 
time ;  you've  known  it  ever  since  Jack  brought  me 
to  you,  the  day  after  you  were  engaged.  And  that's 
nine  years  ago.     It's  the  usual  kind  of  fatality. 

Lady  Torminster.  These  things  happen. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  Yes.  Well,  I  thought  I  was  cured. 
Vve  been  here  five  days,  and  I  find  I  am  not.  So  I 
go.     That's  best,  isn't  it  ? 

Lady  Torminster,  Yes. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  It's  so  infernally  stupid.  You're 
a  beautiful  woman,  of  course  ;  but  there  are  heaps  of 
beautiful  women.  You've  qualities — well,  so  have 
other  women,  too.     I'm  only  forty-one — and,  as  you 


THE  OPEN  DOOR  87 

say,  why  don't  I  marry  ?  Simply  because  of  you. 
Because  you've  an  uncomfortable  knack  of  intruding 
between  me  and  the  other  lady. 

Lady  ToRivrrNSTER.  That  is  a  great  misfortune. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  It's  most  annoying.  So  I  shall 
try  China.  I  shall  come  back  in  two  years-— I  shall 
be  forty-three  then — I  shall  come  back,  sound  as  a 
bell ;  and  I  shall  marry  some  healthy,  pink-cheeked 
young  woman,  take  a  house  next  to  yours,  and  in  the 
fulness  of  time  your  eldest  son  shall  fall  in  love  with 
my  daughter. 

Lady  Torminsteb.  Why  not  ? 

Sir  Geoffrey.  I  shouldn't  have  told  you,  of 
course ;  but  I'm  glad  that  I  have.  It  clears  the  air. 
Now  what  excuse  shall  I  make  ? 

Lady  Torminsteb.  A  wire  from  town  ? 

Sir  Geoffrey.  Jack  knows  all  about  my  affairs ; 
in  fact,  that's  why  I  take  the  early  train,  to  avoid 
his  questions. 

Lady  Torjiinster.  You  find  it  impossible  to  stay 
out  your  time  here  ? 

Sir  Geoffrey.  Quite.  There  are  moments  when 
I  am  unpleasantly  volcanic. 

Lady  Torminster.  Then  I  tell  you  the  best  thing 
to  do.  Don't  take  your  trunks;  just  go  up  with 
a  bag.  Leave  a  note  that  you'll  come  back  on 
Tuesday.  Then  write  from  town  and  say  you're 
prevented. 

Sir  Geofpret.  That's  a  good  idea — yes,  that's 
mucli  bottei, 


88  THE  OPEN  DOOR 

Laly  ToRMixsTER.  And,  if  you  find  that  you  really 
cannot  come  back 

Sir  Geoffrey.  Exactly;  you'll  forward  my  goods 
and  chattels.  And  old  Jack  will  ascribe  it  all  to  my 
wayward  mood  ;  he'll  think  I  have  found  it  too  dull 
down  here.     I'm  immensoly  obliged. 

Lady  Torminster.  [With  a  s-mile.']  Remark  that 
I've  not  ofl'ered  to  be  a  sister  to  you. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  You've  been  superb.  Oh,  the 
good  talk  we've  had  !  Do  you  know,  I  could  almost 
wish  old  Jack  to  have  heard  what  I  said.  I'm  so 
fond  of  him,  that  grand  old  fellow,  that  I've  been  on 
the  point  of  telling  him,  myself,  more  than  once. 
For  you  know  he  icill  have  me  take  you  about,  and 
it's  painful.  Besides,  I've  felt  it  almost  disloyal  to — 
keep  this  thing  from  him.  You  understand,  don't 
you? 

Lady  Torminster.  Yes. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  lie  and  T  almost  are  one,  you  see. 
It's  not  British  to  show  any  feeling,  but  really  I — 
love  him.  And  the  devil  comes  along,  and,  of  all 
women  in  the  world,  singles  out  Jack's  wife,  and  fills 
my  heart  with  her.  That's  the  devil's  sense  of 
humour. 

Lady  Torminster.  Perhaps  he  has  read  Bernard 
Shaw.     But  you  must  never  let  Jack  know — never. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  I  suppose  not.  He's  so  direct,  so 
single-minded,  that  the  shock  would  be  teriible.  But 
I'm  not  to  blame.  How  could  I  help  it?  Oh,  all 
that  cackle  about  being  master  of  one's  fate  ! 


THE  OPEN  DOOH  89 

Lady  Torminster.  Two  years  in  China 

Sir  Geoffrey.  We'll  hope  so.  Of  course,  it 
didn't  matter  about  my  telling  you,  because  you  knew 
already. 

Lady  Torminster.  [^Toddwr/.]  Yes,  I  knew.  Al- 
though  

Sir  Geoffrey.  Oh,  you've  done  what  you  could ! 
I've  felt,  in  a  hundred  subtle  ways,  how  3'ou  almost 
implored  me — not  to.  Well,  there  it  is.  I'll  write 
that  note  at  once. 

[Re  sits  at  the  table  and  legins  to  icrife. 

Lady  Torminster,  I'm  porry  you  are  so  lonely. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  That's  my  fault,  too — the  fault  of 
the  ridiculous  class  to  which  we  belong.  I  don't  do 
anything. 

Lady  Torminster.  Why  not  ? 

Sir  Geoffrey.  What  would  you  have  me  do? 
Go  into  the  House  ?  Thank  you,  I've  been  there. 
You  spend  your  time  on  the  Terrace  or  in  the  smoke- 
room  till  a  muffin-bell  rings ;  then  you  gravely  walk 
into  the  lobby,  where  an  energetic  gentleman  counts 
you  as  Polyphemus  counted  his  sheep.  Philanthropy ! 
Well,  I've  tried  that,  but  it's  not  in  my  line.  I'm 
quite  a  respectable  landlord,  but  a  fellow  can't  live  all 
by  himself  in  a  great  Elizabethan  barrack.  Town — 
the  Season  ?  Christian  mothers  invite  you  to  inspect 
their  daughters'  shoulders,  with  a  view  to  purchase. 
I'm  tired  of  golf  and  polo ;  I'm  tired  of  bridge.  So 
I'll  try  the  good  sea  and  the  open  plains ;  sleep  in  a 


90  THE  OPEN  DOOR 

tent  and   watchi   the  stars   twinkle — the  stars  that 
make  you  afraid. 

Lady  Tormixster.  Yes,  I'm  afraid  of  the  stars. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  Why  ? 

Lady  Torminster.  You  remember  the  Persian 
poet  ?  "I  too  have  said  to  the  stars  and  the  wind,  I 
will.  But  the  wind  and  the  stars  have  mocked  me 
— they  have  laughed  in  my  face.  .  .  ." 

Sir  Geoffrey.  [A  little  uncomfcrtaUe.]  Persian 
poets,  like  all  poets,  have  a  funny  way  of  pretending 
that  the  stars  take  an  interest  in  us.  To  me,  it's 
their  chief  charm  that  they're  so  unconcerned.  They 
are  lonely,  too. 

Lady  Torminster.  [Suddeoil^/,  violently.]  Don't  say 
that  again — don't — I  can't  bear  it ! 

Sir  Geoffrey.  [Aghast.]  Gertrude !  !  ! 

Lady  Torminster.  [In  a  whisper.]  Yes. 

[He  stares  haggardly  at  her  ;  she  does  not  move, 
hut  looks  out,  through  the  open  window, 
into  the  night. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  [With  a  deep  breath.]  Well,  I  sup- 
pose we  had  better  turn  in 

Lady  Torminster.  When  do  you  go  to  China? 

Sir  Geoffrey.  I  shall  take  the  first  boat. 

Lady  Torminster.  And  you  will  come  back ? 

Sir  Geoffrey.  In  a  year — or  two — or  three 

Lady  Torminster.  We  shall  hear  from  you  ? 

Sir  Geoffrey.  [IVith  an  ejffort  of  lightness.]  Cer' 
tainly.  And  I  will  send  you  chests  of  tea — best 
family  Souchong — and   jars   of  ginger.     Also   little 


: 


THE  OrEN  DOOR  9i 

boxes  that  fit  into  each  other.     I  am  afraid  thai  h  a11 
I  know  at  present  of  Chinese  manufactures. 

Lady  Torminsteb.  [Musing.]  You  will  be  away  so 
long? 

Sir  Geoffrey,  You  told  me  to  do  something.  I 
shall  learn  Chinese.  I  believe  there  are  five  hundred 
letters  in  the  alphabet. 

Lady  Torminster.  As  many  as  that  ? 

Sir  Geoffrey.  It  is  possible   that  I  exaggerate. 
Well,  Lady  Torminster,  I  think  I'll  say  good-night. 
[Ee   offers   his  hand,  which  she  ignores.     She 
smiles,  and  viotions  him  back  to  his  seat. 

Lady  Torminster.  The  sun  is  still  shining  in  the 
antipodes,  my  dear  Geoffrey,  and  you  are  still  Jack's 
old  friend,  talking  to  Jack's  wife.  Sit  down,  and 
don't  be  foolish.  You'll  be  away  for  years ;  it's 
possible  we  may  never  meet  again.  It's  possible,  too, 
that  next  time  we  do  meet  you  may  be  married. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  [With  iron  control.]  Who  knows 2 

Lady  Torminster.  Exactly — who  knows  ?  So 
there's  no  reason  why  we  shouldn't  look  each  other 
squarely  in  the  face  for  once,  and  speak  out  what's 
in  us. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  [Sorroiofulhj.]  Oh,  Lady  Torminster, 
what  is  there  to  say  ? 

Lady  Torminster.  [Bending  forward  a  little  and 
smiling.]  How  you  resent  my  having  told  you  / 

Sir  Geoffrey.  [With  a  guilty  start.]  Resent !  I ! 

Lady  Torminster.  You  do,  and  you  know  it.  lu 
your  heart  you  are  saying,  '♦  All  was  going  so  well — 


92  THE  OPEN  DOOR 

ehe  has  spoiled  it !  If  she  does  love  me  she  shouldn't 
have  said  it — Jack's  wife !  " 

Sir  Geoffrey.  [Sturdily.']  Well — Jack's  wife. 
Yes! 

Lady  Torminster.  Geoffrey,  Jack  bores  me. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  [AgloastI]  Lady  Torminster ! 

Lady  Torminster.  [Clapping  lier  hands  in  glee.] 
There  1  I've  said  it !  Oh,  it's  such  a  relief  !  I  never 
have  before,  and  I  don't  suppose  I  ever  shall  again — 
for  whom  can  I  say  it  to  but  you  ?  Listen — I  tell 
you — quite  entre  nous — he  bores  me  shockingly! 

Sir  Geoffrey.  [In  positive  distress.]  Lady  Tor- 
minster !     I  beg  of  you  I 

Lady  Torminster.  [Cheerfidli/.]  The  best  fellow  in 
all  the  world,  and  he  bores  me.  A  heart  of  gold,  a 
model  husband,  a  perfect  father — and  a  bore,  bore, 
bore  !     There  I     I  assure  you  I  feel  better. 

Sir  Gp'.offrey.  I  suppose  there  are  moments  when 
every  woman  says  that  of  every  man. 

Lady  Torminster.  [Fanning  herself.]  My  dear 
Geoffrey,  please  send  for  your  soul ;  it  has  wandered 
off  somewhere,  and  I  don't  like  talking  to  copy- 
books. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  [Doggedly.]  You  are  talking  to 
Jack's  friend. 

Lady  Torminster.  Jack's  finend — and  mine — don't 
forget  that !  And  could  I  say  these  things  about 
Jack  to  any  one  else,  and  can't  you  conceive  what  a 
joy  it  is  to  say  them  ?  Besides,  aren't  we  just  now  on 
the  rim  of  the  world — aren't  we  a  little  more  than 


THE  OPEN  DOOR  93 

ourselves — aren't  we  almost  on  the  other  side  of 
things  ?  If  we  ever  meet  again,  we  shall  look  curiously 
at  each  other,  and  wonder,  was  it  all  true  ?  As  it  is, 
I  am  scarcely  sure  that  you  are  real.  Everything 
is  so  still,  so  strange.  Jack  !  He  is  up  there,  of 
course,  the  dear  boy,  his  big  red  face  pressed  on 
the  pillow.  Oh,  GeoflVey,  when  Jack  brought  you 
to  me,  and  I  was  engaged — if  you  only  hadn't  been 
so  loyal ! 

Sir  Geoffrey.  [Grimly.]  Do  you  know  what  you 
are  saying  ? 

Lady  Torminster.  I  am  saying  the  things  a  woman 
says  once  in  a  lifetime,  and  feels  all  her  life.  Oh, 
it  was  all  so  simple  !  You  loved  me — you  .  .  .  were 
blind  because  of  Jack  .  .  .  And  I  married  Jack  .  .  . 
I  mustn't  complain  ...  1  am  one  of  the  hundreds  of 
women  who  marry — Jacks. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  A  better,  finer  man  never  lived. 

Lady  Torminster.  I  dare  say — in  fact,  I  am  sui-e. 
But  you  should  see  us  when  we  are  alone,  sitting 
there  night  after  night,  with  never  a  word  to  say 
to  each  other !  You  tell  me  you're  tired  of  polo, 
and  golf,  and  bridge.  Well,  how  about  me  ?  And 
need  you  be  scowling  so  fiercely,  and  begrudge  me 
my  one  little  wail,  you  who  are  going  away  ? 

Sir  Geoffrey.  [Angrily.]  Yes,  I  am  going  away, 
and  I  shall  marry  a  Chinese.  I  shall  marry  the 
first  Chinese  woman  I  meet. 

Lady  Torminstkr.  This  is  very  sudden.     Why  ? 

Sir  Geoffrey.  Because,  at  least,  not  knowing  the 


9i  THE  OPEN  DOOR 

language,  she  won't  be  able  to  say  unkind  things 
about  me  to  my  friends. 

Lady  Torminster.  [ffer  chin  on  her  hand,  looking 
squarely  at  him.']  Geoflfrey,  i$  Jack  a  bore  ? 

Sir  Geoffrey.  He  never  bores  me. 

Lady  Torminster.  That's  because  he  shot  your 
tiger,  and  you  rubbed  his  nose.  Besides,  you  talk 
about  horses,  and  so  on.  And  yet  I  heard  him, 
for  a  solid  hour,  telling  you  about  a  rubber  he  lost 
at  bridge  through  his  partner  making  diamonds 
trumps  when  he  should  have  made  spades. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  He's  not  clever,  of  course — and 
you  are.     But  still !     Is  cleverness  everything  ? 

Lady  Torminster.  Haven't  I  told  you  he's  the 
very  best  fellow  in  all  the  world  ?  And  do  you  think 
I'm  posing,  pretending  that  I'm  misunderstood,  and 
the  rest?  You  know  me  better.  I  am  indulging, 
for  once,  in  the  luxury  of  absolute  candour. 

Sir  Geoferey.  You  loved  him 

Lady  Torminster.  Of  course  I  loved  him — and 
I  love  him  now. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  [Triumphantly.']  You  see! 

Lady  Torminster.  If  we  women  had  had  a  hand  in 
the  making  of  the  language,  how  many  words  there 
would  be  to  express  our  feelings  towards  the  men 
we  are  fond  of  1  Of  course  I  love  Jack.  I'm  cruel 
to  him  sometimes ;  and  there  comes  a  look  into  his 
eyes — he  has  dog's  eyes,  you  know — a  faithful  New- 
foundland  

Sir    Geoffrey.    [Very  earnestly.]  I    don't    think 


THE  OPEN  DOOR  95 

women    quite  realise    what  friendship   means  to  a 
man. 

Lady  Toeminster.  I  am  certain  that  men  don't 
realise  what  marriage  means  to  a  woman !  Dear 
funeral,  am  I  not  a  good  wife — shall  I  not  remain 
a  good  wife,  till  the  end  of  the  chapter  ?  Because 
there  isn't  only  Jack — there  are  Jack's  children. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  Yes. 

Lady  Tormikster.  And  isn't  it  wonderful,  when 
you  think  of  it — here  are  we  two,  Jack's  friend  and 
his  wife,  alone  on  a  desert  island — and  we  have  con- 
fessed our  love  for  each  other,  and  we  are  able  to 
discuss  it  as  calmly  as  though  it  were  rheumatism  ! 

Sir  Geoffrey.  [With  a  groan.]  If  only  I  hadn't 
induced  you  to  stay  ! 

Lady  Torminstee.  [Smiling.']  My  dear  friend,  you 
didn't ! 

Sir  Geoffrey.  [Amazed.]  I  didn't? 

Lady  Torminster.  Why  no — of  course  not.  I 
knew  you  were  going  to-morrow. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  How  ? 

Lady  Torminster.  Oh,  never  mind  how !  I  knew. 
And  I  suspected  you  would  be  sitting  up  here  to- 
night. So  I  came  down,  hoping  to  find  you.  I 
wanted  this  talk  with  you.  And  I  extracted  your 
confession — as  though  it  had  been  a  tooth. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  And  why  ? 

Lady  Torminster.  Why  ?  Because  it  will  be  some- 
thing to  think  of,  in  the  dull  days  ahead.  Because  I 
knew   that   you  loved   me,  and  wanted  to  be  told. 


96  THE  OPEN  DOOR 

Because  your  life  lies  before  you,  and  mine  is  ended. 
Because  I  love  you,  and  insisted  that  you  should 
know.  You  leave  me  now,  and  I  have  no  illusions. 
Paolo  and  Francesca  are  merely  a  poet's  dream. 
You  will  man-y — of  course  you  will  marry — but  this 
moment,  at  least,  has  been  mine. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  [^Stretching  out  yearning  hands.^ 
This  moment,  and  every  moment,  in  past  and  future ! 

Lady  Torminster.  Ah,  the  future  !  Strange  little 
syllables  that  hide  so  much !  I  can  see  you,  intro- 
ducing your  wife  to  me,  a  little  shyly — I  can  see 
myself,  shaking  hands  with  her — and  with  you.  .  .  . 
My  boy  is  seven  already — time  travels  fast.  .  .  .  But 
it's  good  to  know  that  you  really  have  loved  me, 
all  these  years.  .  .  . 

Sir  Geoffrey.  By  day  and  by  night — ^you,  and 
only  you  ! 

Lady  Torminster.  And  I  have  loved  you — ah,  yes, 
I  have  loved  you !  .  .  .  And,  having  said  this  to  each 
other,  we  will  not  meet  again — till  you  bring  me 
your  wife. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  Ah — then ! 

Lady  Torminster.  I  have  loved  you,  and  I  love 
you,  for  the  fine,  upright,  loyal  creature  that  you  are. 
I  love  you  for  loving  Jack ;  and  it  is  Jack's  great 
quality  in  my  eyes  that  he  has  been  able  to  inspire 
such  love.  And,  my  dear  friend,  let  us  not  be 
ashamed,  we  two,  but  only  very  proud,  and  very 
happy.  We  shall  go  our  ways,  and  do  our  duty ;  but 
we  shall  never  forget  this  talk  we  have  had  to-night. 


THE  OPEN  DOOR  97 

Sir  Geoffkey,  [Gentli/.]  I  am  beginning  to  under- 
stand. .  .  . 

Lady  Torminster.  You  will  be  less  lonely  in 
future  .  .  .  and  I  no  longer  afraid  of  the  stars. 
,  .  .  Brave  heart — oh,  brave  little  heart  that  I  for 
a  moment  have  held  in  my  hands ! 

Sir  Geoffrey.  [  With  a  passi'^nate  movement  towards 
her.]  Gertrude  ! 

Lady  Torminster.  [Lifting  a  finger.]  No — stay 
where  you  are.  .  .  .  Those  are  the  first  rays  of  dawn 
— I  must  go.  .  .  .  Good-bye.  We  have  no  need 
to  shake  hands,  you  and  I.  .  .  .  Ah,  Geofirey — 
good-bye  ! 

\Ske  goes  swiftly,  and  closes  the  door.  He  bends 
his  head,  and  remains  standing,  motionless, 
by  the  table. 


CURTAIN 


THE  BRACELET 

A  PLAY  IN  ONE  ACT 


THE  PERSONS  OF  THE  PLAY 

Haevey  VVestkkm 

His  Honoub  Judge  Banket 

Martin 

William 

Mrs.  Western 

Mrs.  Banket 

MlS8  Farben 

Bmithers 

TlMH — The  present 


Produced  at 
the  Liverpool 
Repertory  Theatre 
cm  Feb.   26,    1912 


THE  BRACELET 

The  dining-room  in  an  u^q^er  middle-class  house  near 
the  Park,  It  is  furnished  in  the  conventional 
moderrc  style,  soberly  and  without  imagination 
The  room  is  on  the  ground  floor,  facing  the  street , 
the  door  is  to  the  right,  and  leads  into  the  hall 
To  the  left  of  this  door  is  a  sideboard,  glittering 
with  silver.  Three  tall  windows,  at  the  back 
heavily  curtained  ;  between  them  hang  two  or  three 
family  portraits.  TJie  table,  on  which  there  is  the 
usual  debris  of  a  meal  that  is  over — coffee-cujts, 
liqueur -glasses,  etc, — has  been  laid  for  four 
pei'sons,  and  their  four  chairs  are  still  around  it. 
The  fireplace,  with  its  rather  crude  and  ambitions 
mantelpiece,  is  in  the  centre  of  the  left  wall ; 
and  uncomfortable-looking  heavy  armchairs  are 
on  each  side  of  it.  On  the  mantelpiece  are  a 
marble  clock  aud  a  few  bits  of  china.  In  the 
angle  formed  at  the  left  side  is  a  small  Queen 
Anne  writing-table,  open.  To  the  right  of  the 
room  is  a  large  sofa.  The  floor  is  heavily 
carpeted,     and    there    are    many     rugs    scattered 


about. 


103 


104  THE  BRACELET 

When  the  ciirtain  rises,  the  room  is  in  dark- 
ness. William,  the  footman,  enters  hurriedly 
and  switches  on  the  electric  light.  He  rushes 
to  the  table,  looks  eagerly  around,  shifting  cups 
and  glasses,  napkins,  etc.,  then  goes  on  his  hands 
and  knees  and  searches  on  the  carpet.  After 
a  moment,  Smithers,  the  ladys-maid,  follows 
him. 

Smithers.  [Eagerly.']  Can't  you  find  it  ? 

"William.  [Sulkily!]  No.    Not  yet.    Give  me  time. 

Smithers.  [Feeling  along  the  table-cloth,]  Under  one 
of  those  rugs,  perhaps. 

William.  Well,  I'm  looking.  [Motor-horn  sounds 
sharply,  off.]  All  right,  all  right ! 

Smithers.  [With  a  jerk  of  the  head.]  Missis  is  telling 
him  to  do  it. 

William.  [On  all  fours,  crawling  about.]  Very  like 
her  voice,  too,  when  she's  angry.  Drat  the  thing  I 
Where  can  it  be  ? 

[He  peers  into  the  coal-scuttle. 

Smithers.  No  good  looking  in  there,  stupid. 
William.  They    always    say    it's    the   unlikeliest 

places 

[Martin,  the  butler,  comes  in. 

Martin.  Come,  come,  haven't  you  found  it  ? 
William.  No,  Mr.  Martin.     It  ain't  here. 
Martin.  [Bustling  about.]  Must  be,  must  be.     She 
says 


THE  BRACELET  105 

William.  I  can't  help  what  she  says.     It  ain't. 
Maktin.  [Looking  under  the  sofa.]  Just  you  hustle, 
young  man,  and  don't  give  me  any  back-answers. 

[Having  completed  his  examination  of  the  sofa, 
he  moves  to  the  sideboard,  and  fusses  round 
that. 

Smithers,  [Methodically  shaking  out  each  napkin.] 
I  tell  you  she's  cross, 

Martin.  [Hard  at  roorh,  searching.']  Doesn't  mind 
disturbing  ws,  in  the  midst  of  our  supper ! 

William.  [TFAo,  all  the  time,  has  been  on  all  fours 
searching^  We're  diit,  that's  what  we  are — dirt. 

Martin.  [Reprovingly ^^  William,  I've  told  you 
before 

William.  Yery  sorry,  Mr.  Martin,  but  this  is  the 
first  time  I've  accepted  an  engagement  at  a  stock- 
broker's. [He  has  been  crawling  roimd  the  curtains  at 
the  hack,  shaking  them  ;  pidling  hard  at  one  of  them  he 
dislodges  the  lower  part.]  Lor  !  Noio  I've  done  it  1 

Smithers.  Clumsy ! 

Martin.  [Severely.]  That  comes  of  too  much  talk. 
Never  mind  the  curtain — go  on  looking. 

[William  drops  on  to  his  hands  and  knees 
again ;  Harvey  Western  comes  into  the 
room,  perttirbed  and  restless.  He  is  a  well- 
preserved  man  of  fifty. 

Harvey.  I  say — not  found  it  ? 
Martin.  Not  yet,  sir. 


106  THE  BRACELET 

Harvey.  Nuisance.     M'ast  be  here,  you  know. 

Martin.  Is  it  a  very  valuable  one,  sir? 

Harvey.  \Who  has  gone  to  the  table,  and  is  turning 
things  over.]  No,  no,  not  particularly — but  that's  not 
the  point.  [He  looks  under  the  table. 

Martin.  [Still  seeking.]  When  did  madam  find 
that  she'd  lost  it,  sir  ? 

Harvey.  Oh,  about  five  minutes  after  we'd  started 
And  we've  turned  over  everything  in  the  car.  It's 
certainly  not  there.  [He  fusses  around  the  table. 

Martin.  Is  madam  quite  sure  she  was  wearing  it, 
sir? 

Smithers.  [Fretfulhj.]  Yes,  yes,  of  course  she  was 
wearing  it.     I  put  it  on  her  myself. 

Martin.  Where  did  madam  put  her  cloak  on, 
sir? 

Smithers.  In  here.     I  brought  it  in. 

Martin.  You  didn't  notice  whether 

Smithers.  No.     Don't  you  think  if  we  moved  all 

the  rugs 

[She  moves  across  the  room  and  joins  William, 
who  is  still  grovelling  on  the  floor,  and  goes 
on  her  knees  by  his  side. 

Harvey.  It  must  be  here  somewhere. 

[They  are  all  searching  furiously — WilliaN 
by  the  windows,  peering  into  tJts  spaces 
between  the  wall  and  the  carpets,  Martin  at 
the  sideboard^  Smithers  gathering  the 
rugs    together,    all    on   their    hands    a/ad 


THE  BRACELET  107 

knees,  v;hile  Harvey,  bent  double,  is  look- 
ing under  the  table,    Mrs.  Western  comes 
in  stonily,  followed    by    the    Judge    and 
Mrs.  Banket.     Mrs.  Western  is  a  hand- 
some woman  of  forty-five,  with  a  rather 
stern,    cold  face ;  the   Judge,  a  somevihat 
corpulent,  genial  man  of  fifty-five  ;  and  his 
wife,  an  amiable  nullity,  seven  or  eight  yean 
younger.     They  are  all  in  evening-dress, 
the  ladies  in  opera-cloaks. 
Mrs.  Western.  [Pausing  on  the  threshold.']  Well ! 
Harvey.  [Eising  and  dusting  himself]  No  trace  of 
it. 

Mrs.  Western.    [Looking  around.]     A  nice  mess 
you've  made  of  the  room  ! 

Martin.  You  told  us  to  look.  Madam. 
Judge.  [Going  to  the  fire  and  standing  vnth  his  back 
to  it.]  I'm  afraid  we'll  be  shockingly  late,  Alice. 

Mrs.  Western.  [Firmly.]  I  don't  go  without  my 
bracelet. 

[She  goes  to  the  table,  and  proceeds  to  shift  the 
cups  and  glasses. 
Mrs.  Banket.  [Moving  to  the  other  side  of  the  table, 
and  doing  the  same.]  Quite  right,  dear — I  wouldn't. 

[They  all  search,  except  tfte  Judge,  who  shrugs 

his  shoulders  placidly,  then  takes  a  cigarette 

from  his  case,   and   lights  it.     The    three 

servants  still  are  grovelling  on  thefioor. 

Mrs.  Western.    I  know  I    had    it  while    I    was 

drinking  my  coflee 


108  THE  BRACELET 

Judge.  My  expeiience  is,  one  should  never  look 
for  things.    They  find  themselves. 

Mrs.  WESTJiKN.  [^Shortly.'\  Nonsense. 

Judge.  A  fact.  Or  at  least  one  should  jtweiewc?  to  be 
looking  for  something  else.  My  glasses  now.  When 
I  lose  them  I  declare  loudly  I  can't  find  my  cigar-case. 
That  disheartens  the  glasses — they  return  at  once. 

Mes.  Banket.  {Reproachfully.']  Don't  be  so  irrita- 
ting, Tom! 

Judge.  That's  all  very  well,  but  how  about  me? 
I  was  asked  here  to  dine.  I've  dined — I'm  not 
complaining  about  the  dinner.  But  now  the  cux'tain's 
up — and  here  am  I  watching  half-a-dozen  people 
looking  very  hard  for  a  thing  that  isn't  there. 

Mrs.  Banket.  Tom,  Tom,  it's  those  laughs  you 
get  in  Court  that  make  you  so  fond  of  talking. 
Don't  you  see  how  you're  vexing  your  sister  ? 

Mrs.  Western.  Oh;  I'm  used  to  Tom.  Harvey, 
I  think  you  might  be  looking. 

Harvey.  My  dear,  I've  been  turning  round  and 
round  in  this  corner  like  a  bird  in  a  cage. 

Martin.  [  Who  all  this  time,  like  the  other  servants,  has 

been  crawling  around  the  different  articles  of  furniture 

in  tl^e  room,  suddenly  rises  to  his  feet  and  addresses  his 

mistress  firmly  hut  respectfully. 1  It's  not  here,  madam. 

\The  other  servants  also  rise  :  and  stand,  each 

in  their  corner. 

Judge.  That,  I  imagine,  is  perfectly  clear ;  and  I 
congratulate  the  witness  on  the  manner  in  which  he 
has  given  his  evidence.  [77e  throws  his  cigarette  into 
the  fire  and  steps  forward.]  Now,  my  dear  Alice 


THE  BRACELET  109 

Mrs.   Western.  [>SiUvig  clo[i<jedly  in  the  chair  in 
front  of  the  table  and  proceeding  to  pull  off  her  gloves. 
I  don't  go  without  my  bracelet. 

Judge.  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  speak  slight- 
ingly of  a  gift  of  Harvey's — but  really  it  isn't  of  such 
priceless  value. 

Mrs.  Western.  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it. 

Mrs.  Banket.  Of  course  not.     Oh,  these  men  ! 

Harvey.  [Stepping  forward.]  Tom's  right.  Let's 
go.     Look  here,  I'll  get  you  another. 

Mrs.  Western.  [Drilj/.]  Thanks — I  want  that  one. 
— Smithers,  and  you,  William,  just  look  again  in  the 
hall. 

Smitheks.  Yes,  m'm. 

Mrs.  Western.  And  then  help  the  chauffeur — turn 
out  everything  in  the  car. 

Smithers.  Yep,  m'm. 

Mrs.  Western.  Bring  the  rugs  into  the  house,  and 
shake  them. 

Smithers.  Yes,  m'm.  [6'Ae  a.nd  William  go. 

Judge.  [Going  hack  to  the  fireP\  Sumptuary  laws — 
that's  what  we  want.  If  women  didn't  wear  bracelets, 
they  couldn't  lose  them. 

Mrs.  Western.  Martin,  William  is  honest,  isn't 
he? 

Harvey.    [Protesting.]  Oh,  hang  it,  Alice ! 

Martin.  Quite,  madam — excellent  character — a 
little  flighty,  but  a  most  respectable  young  man. 

Mrs.  Western.  I've  seen  him  reading  a  sporting 
paper. 

Judge.  A  weakness,  my  dear  Alice,  common  to  the 


no  THE  BRACELET 

best  of  us.  I  do  it  myself  sometimes,  but  I'm  willing 
to  be  searched. 

Mes.  Banket.  0  Tom,  do  be  quiet ! 

Mrs.  Western.  [To  the  Judge.]  You're  very  un- 
sympathetic. [Turning  to  Martin  again.]  None  of 
the  other  servants  came  in  after  we  left  ? 

Martin.  No,  madam, 

Mrs.  Western.  You're  sure  ? 

Martin.  Quite  sure,  madam.  They  were  all  down- 
stairs, having  their  supper. 

Mrs.  Western.  Most  mysterious !  Incompre- 
hensible ! 

Judge.  [Looking  at  his  watch,]  Past  nine!  We 
shall  plunge  into  the  play — like  body-snatchers,  look- 
ing for  the  corpse  of  the  plot — and  we  shall  never 
know  what  it  was  that  the  heroine  did. 

Mrs.  Western.  [Ignoring  him,  to  Martin.]  Smithers 
I'll  answer  for. 

Martin.  Oh  yes,  madam.  If  I  might  make  a 
suggestion 

Mrs.  Western.  Well? 

Martin.  It  couldn't  have  fallen  anywhere  into 
your  dress,  madam  ? 

Mrs.  Western.  Nonsense,  how  could  it  ?  [She  gets 
up  and  shakes  herself.]  Absurd.  [She  sits  again. 

Martin.  Into  your  cloak  ? 

Mrs.  Western.  Silk!  No.  That'll  do,  Martin. 
You  might  help  the  others'  outside.        [Martin  goes. 

Judge.  [With  a  step  forward.]  Now,  admirable 
sister 


THE  BRACELET  111 

Mrs.  Western,  Didn't  it  strike  you  that  Martin's 
manner  was  rather  strange  ? 

Harvey.  \^Fretfidly.^  Really  you  mtist  not  suspect 
the  servants  ! 

Mrs.  Western.  [Turning  to  Aim.]  MiLst  not — 
must!  That's  scarcely  the  way  to  speak  to  me, 
Harvey. 

Harvey.  \I)ej)recatingly.\  My  dear 

Mrs.  Western.  And  I  wasn't  suspecting — I  was 
merely  asking  a  question  of  my  brother. 

Judge.  Come,  Alice,  let's  go. 

Mrs.  Western.  [Shaking  her  head.]  You  three  go. 
You'll  excuse  me. 

Judge.  [Cheerfidhj.]  If  you  insist 

Mrs.  Banket.  [Coming  forivoi'd.]  No,  no.  Du 
come,  Alice ! 

Mrs.  Western.  I  can't — I'm  so  puzzled.  [Wit/i  a 
sudden  idea.]  Oh  ! 

Harvey.  [JVho  is  behind  her  to  the  left,  between  her 
and  the  Judge.]    What  ?     Have  you  found  it  ? 

Mrs.  Western,  ISTo,  no — of  course  not.  But  ring, 
please,  will  you  ? 

Harvey.  Why  ? 

Mrs.  Western.  I  want  you  to  ring,  [Represses  the 
hell  by  the  fireplace.]  I  just  remember  Miss  Farren 
came  in  while  we  were  having  coffee. 

Harvey.  [Indignantly.]  Alice  ! 

Maa.  Western.  I  asked  her  to  write  a  card  to 
Harrod's — she'll  have  written  it  in  here. 

Ba»vey.  [Angrily.]  I  say — really! 


112  THE  BRACELET 

Mrs.  Western.  [Coldly.]  No  need  to  snub  me 
again — before  our  guests !  I  need  scarcely  say 
I  am  not  suspecting  Miss  Farren — but  in  justice  to 
her 

Mrs.  Banket.  But,  Alice,  she'll  have  gone  out — 
you  told  her  she  might 

Mrs.  Western.  Only  to  her  sister's  close  by — and 
she  may  not  have  gone  yet.  Why  don't  they  answer 
the  bell?     Ring  again,  Harvey. 

Judge.  The  poor  things  are  still  searching. 

Harvey.  [Firmly.]  Alice,  I  protest,  I  do  in- 
deed  

Mrs.  Western.  Don'^  be  so  foolishly  sentimental 
— it's  ridiculous  at  your  age.  The  young  woman  is  in 
my  employ,  as  governess  to  my  children.  [Martin 
comes  in.]     Has  Miss  Fari'en  gone  out  yet  ? 

Martin.  No,  madam.  I  believe  she's  in  her  room, 
dressing. 

Mrs.  Western.  Ask  her  to  come. 

Martin.  Yes,  madam.  [Re  goes. 

Judge.  [Shaking  his  head.]  No  sense  of  proportion, 
that's  the  truth — they've  no  sense  of  proportion. 

Mrs.  Banket.  Tom ! 

Judge.  A  fact,  my  dear — but  you  can't  help  it. 
You've  every  quality  in  the  world  but  just  that — you 
will  always  look  through  the  wrong  end  of  the 
telescope. 

Mrs.  Banket.  Really,  Tom,  this  isn't  the  moment 
for  your  nonsense — and  if  you  only  knew  how  stupid 
you  are  when  you  try  to  be  funny ! 


THE  BRACELET  113 

Harvey.    [Going  nervously  to  Mrs.  Western.]    I 

say,  I  really  do  think 

Mrs.  Western.  [Roughly.']  I  don't  care  what  you 
♦^hink.     Leave  me  alone  ! 

[There  is  silence.     The  Judge,  sitting  by  thejire, 
vjhistles  loudly  "  Waltz  ma  around  again, 
Willie  !  "     Harvey  has  gone  moodily  across 
the  room  and  stands  by  the  sideboard.    Mrs. 
Banket  is  sitting  behind  the  table.     After  a 
moment  the  door  opens,  and  Miss  Farren 
comes  in,  with  hat  and  cloak  on,  and  goes 
straight  to  Mrs.  Western.      She  is   an 
extremely  pretty  girl  of  twenty. 
Miss  Farren.  You  want  me,  Mrs.  Western  ? 
Mrs.  Western.    Oh,  Miss    Farren,  I've  lost  my 
bracelet. 

Miss  Farren.  Really  !     I'm  so  sorry  I     Where  ? 
Mrs.  Western.  I  don't  know.    You  didn't  see  it,  of 
course,  after  we'd  gone  ? 

Miss  Faeren.  [Shaking  her  head.]  No — and  no  one 
came  in.     I  was  writing  the  letter  to  Harrod's. 
Mrs.  Western.  No  one  at  all  ? 
Miss  Farren.    No — I'm  sure  of  that.      And  I'd 
hardly  got  to  my  room  when  I  heard  the  car  come 
back. 

Mrs.  Western.  Well,  thank  you,  Miss  Farren. 
Miss  Farren.  It's  very  annoying.     You're  sure  it's 
not  in  the  car? 

Judge.  My  dear  Miss  Farren,  it's  not  in  the  car. 
it's  not  anywhere,  and  I'm  beginning  to  believe  it 

H 


114  THE  BRACELET 

never  was  at  all.  Come,  Alice,  let's  go.  "We  shan't 
see  much  of  the  play,  but  we  can  at  least  help  the 
British  drama  by  buying  two  programmes. 

Miss  Farren.  [With  a  light  laugh — then  turning  to 
Mrs.  Western  again.]  Do  you  want  me  any  more, 
Mrs.  Western? 

Mrs.  Western.  No,  thanks.  [Miss  Farren  turns  to 
go — Mrs.  Western,  who  has  suddenly  cast  an  eager 
glance  at  her,  as  though  attracted  by  something,  calls  her 
bach.]  Oh,  Miss  Farren ! 

Miss  Farren.  [Turning,]  Yes  ? 
Mrs.  Western.    I   wonder  whether  you'd  be  so 
good  as  to  shift  this  aigrette  of  mine — it's  hurting 
me. 

Miss  Farren.  Certainly. 

[She    comes    hack    to    Mrs.    Western,    and 
stands  by  her  side ;  as  she  raises  her  arm 
Mrs.  Western  Jwrtjos  vp  and  seizes  it  by 
the  wrist. 
Mrs.  Western.  My  bracelet ! 

[Keeping  a  tight  hold  of  Miss  Farren's  wrist, 
she  holds  it  at  arm^s  length.  There  is  a 
general  cry  of  amazement — the  Judge  and 
his  loife  start  to  their  feet — Harvey  rushes 
eagerly  towards  her. 
Judge.  Alice ! 
Mrs.  Banket.  Oh  1 

Harvey.  No,  no 

[These  three  exclamiations  a/i-e  simultaneous. 
Mrs.  Western.  There  it  is !    She  took  it  I 


THE  BRACELET  115 

Judge.  Are  you  sure  ? 

Harvey.  [Breathless  and  urgent.^  Alice 

Miss  Farren.  [Recovering  from  her  shock  and 
bewilderment.]  Mrs.  Western,  it  isn't 

Mrs.  "Western.  [Sfemly,  still  holding  the  girl  by  the 
W7'ist.']  You  dare  to  pretend 

Harvey.  [Who  is  novj  at  the  hack  of  his  tvife's  chair, 
looking  closely  at  the  bracelet.]  Let  me  look,  let  me 
look.  ...  I  say,  Alice,  you're  wrong.  It's  not  yours 
at  all.     The  setting's  different. 

Mrs.  Western.  [Angrily.]  What  do  you  mean, 
diflFerent  ?  You  think  I  don't  know  my  own  bracelet? 
Are  you  mad  ?     I  say  it's  mine — and  it  is ! 

Judge.  [Stepping  forward^  Alice,  be  careful 

Mrs.  Western.  Careful !  You're  as  bad  as  he ! 
Of  course  the  thing's  mine — I've  been  wearing  it  for 
weeks — and  you  think  I  can  make  a  mistake  ?  She 
found  it,  and  took  it. 

Miss  Farren.  [Very  distressed,]  No,  no,  Mrs. 
Western,  really  !     It  isn't  yours  !     I  assure  you  ! 

Harvey.  Alice,  I  declare  to  you 

Mrs.  Western.  [Roughly.]  Be  quiet  and  go  away. 
This  is  no  business  of  yours. 

Harvey.  [Eagerly.]  But  it  is  !  It  was  I  who  bought 
the  wretched  thing — well,  I  am  prepared  to  swear  that 
this  isn't  the  one ! 

Mrs.  Western.  [A  little  shaken,  looking  at  it  again.] 
You're  prepared  to.  .  .  .  [She  lifts  her  head.]  How 
can  you  talk  such  utter  nonsense  ?  There  is  not  the 
least  doubt — not  the  least  I 


116  THE  BRACELET 

JuDaB.  [Stoppi7ig  Harvey,  who  is  about  to  protest 
violently.]  Alice,  mind  what  you're  saying.  You'll  get 
yourself  into  trouble.     If  Harvey  says 

Mrs.  Banket.  [Coniemptiioiisly.]  He's  saying  it  to 
shield  her,  that's  all. 

Harvey.  [IndiynantlT/.]  I'm  not.  It's  not  true. 
But  you  mustn't  bring  such  an  accusation.  It's  mon- 
strous.    And  I  won't  allow 

Mrs.  Western.  \_Drawing  herself  up.]  You — won't 
— allow  1  The  girl  takes  my  bracelet — and  you  won't 
allow  ! 

Miss  Farren.  [^Trying  to  free  her  self.]  Mrs.  Western, 
I  haven't,  I  haven't ! 

Judge.  [Impressively.]  Alice,  will  you  listen  to  me  ? 

Mrs.  Western.  No,  I  won't !  This  doesn't  concern 
you,  or  any  one,  but  me  and  this  girl !  Look  at  her — 
she  knows ! 

Miss  Farren.  Mrs.  Western,  you're  hurting  my 
arm.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Western.  Oome  now — confess!  I  won't  be 
hard  on  you  if  you  confess 

[She  wrenches  off  the  bracelet^  and  releases  the 
girl,  who  staggers  hack,  nursing  her  wrist. 

Harvey.  [Almost  beside  himself,  stamping  his  foot.] 
Alice,  Alice,  will  you  hear 

Miss  Farren.  Oh,  you  have  hurt  me  !  And  you've 
no  right — to  say  such  things.  .  .  . 

Harvey.  No,  you  haven't,  you  haven't  I 

Mrs.  "W  estern.  Besides,  a  bracelet  like  that  I   [Sh^ 


THE  BRACELET  117 

holds  it  up.     To  Miss  Farren.]     You  won't  confess  ? 
Very  well,  then.     I'll  send  for  a  policeman. 

Harvey.  [Doggedly.^  The  bracelet  is  hers. 

Mrs.  Western.  \Jeeringly.'\  Turquoise  and  emeralds! 
Hers !  A  coincidence,  perhaps.  Very  likely.  I'll 
give  her  in  charge  at  once. 

Harvey.  The  bracelet  is  hers,  I  tell  you. 

Mrs.  Western.  [^Turning  furioushj  on  him.^^  You 
dare  to  say  that  ? 

Harvey.  [Steadily^  Yes.  Because  I  mys^elf — gave 
it  to  her. 

\_There  is  a  moment's  almost  siupe/ied  silence  ; 
Harvey  and  Alice  are  face  to  face.  Miss 
Farren  to  the  left  of  her,  Mrs.  Banket  is 
still  at  the  back,  the  Judge  hy  the  fire. 
Mrs.  Western  hreaks  the  silence. 

Mrs.  Western.  [^Sternly.'\  You — gave — it — her  ? 

Harvey.  [Steadily.']  Yes. 

Mrs.  Western.  You  ask  me  to  believe  that  you 
gave  a  bracelet  to — this  person — my  children's  gover- 
ness? 

Harvey.  I  did. 

Mrs.  Western.  An  exact  copy  of  the  one  you 
gave  me  ? 

Harvey,  I've  told  you — it'.s  not  an  exact  copy — 
there's  a  difference  in  the  setting. 

Mrs.  Banket.  Nonsense,  nonsense,  it  can't  be — 
he's  just  saying  this 

Judge.  Fanny,  don't  interfere. 

Harvey.  I'm  saying  what's  true. 


118  THE  BRACELET 

Mrs,  "Western.  I  refuse  to  believe  it.  It's  iv- 
cvedible.  You've  not  sunk  so  low  as  that.  It's  a 
lie. 

Harvey.  [Indignantl//.']  Alice! 

Mrs.  Western,  Yes,  a  lie.     A  trumped-up  story. 

The  girl  has  taken  it 

Miss  Farren.  I  have  not! 

Mrs,  Western.  You  can  tell  that  to  the  magis- 
trate— [She  turns  to  Harvey]  and  you  too,  if  you 
like,  [She  moves  to  the  bell. 

JuoaE,  [Patting  out  a  hand  to  stoj)  her.]  Alice 

Mrs.  Western.  Leave  me  alone,  Tom.  I  know 
what  I'm  doing.     I'll  send  for  a  policeman. 

Harvey.  [Implorinr/li/.']  Alice,  Alice > 

Mrs.  Western.    [Paasmg,  tviih  her  hand  on  tht 
bell.]  I'll  let  the  girl  ofl",  if  you'll  tell  me  the  truth. 
Harvey.  I  have  told  you  the  truth. 
Mrs.  Western.   You    persist    in  this   silly   false- 
hood ? 

Harvey.  It  isn't — I  tell  you  it  isn't  1 
Mrs.  Western.  Yery  well,  then. 

[She  presses  the  bdl.  At  that  Tiioment  the  door 
bursts  open,  and  Martin  comes  in  trium- 
phantly,  with  the  bracelet  on  a  salver. 
Smithers  and  William  are  behind  him, 
hut  do  not  pass  beyond  the  threshold. 
Martin.    [Eagerly.]    Ma'am,  ma'am,  we've  found 

the 

[Mrs.  Western  has  turned  toumrds  him,  still 
holding   the   other   bracelet  in  her  hand 


THE  BRACELET  119 

Martin  catches  sight  of  it,  and  stops  dead 
short,  staring  hewilderedly  at  it. 
Mrs.  Western.  [Calmly,']  Where  did  you  find  it  ? 
[She  takes  the  bracelet  off  the  salver  and  lays 
it  on  the  table. 
Martin.    [With  a  great  effort.']    It  had  fallen  intc 
the  pocket  of  the  car — there  was  a  hole  in  the  pocket 
—it  had  worked  its  way  right  down  into  the  body, 
Mrs.  Western.     Very  well.     Thank  you. 

[Martin  goes  ;  the  other  servants  have  already 
slunk  off.  There  is  a  moment's  s-ilence. 
Mrs.  Western  suddenly  flings  the  bracelet 
she  has  in  her  hand  in  Miss  Farren's 
direction. 

Mrs.  Western.  [Contemptuously!]  Here.  I  return 
you  your  property.  And  now  pack  up  your  things 
and  leave  the  house. 

Harvey.  [Who  has  stepped  forward  and  picked  up 
the  bracelet,  standing  betiveen  Mrs.  Western  and  Miss 
Farren.]  No. 

Mrs.  Western.  [Staring  at  him.]  What  ? 

Harvey.  [Violently.]  I  say,  No  ! 

Mrs.  Western.  I  have  told  the  girl  to  leave  my 
house. 

Harvey.  My  house — mine !  And  she  shall  stay 
in  it !  Or,  at  least,  when  she  goes,  it  shall  be  without 
the  slightest  stain  or  suspicion 

Mrs.  Western.  [Scornfully.]  I  am  not  accusing 
her  of  theft. 


120  THE  BRACELET 

Harvey.  But  you  are  insinuating — I  declare 
solemnly  before  you  all 

Judge.  [Interposing.]  Harvey,  one  moment.  ...  I 
am  sure  that  Miss  Farren  would  rather  go  to  her 
loom.  .  .  . 

Miss  Farren.  Yes. 

Harvey.  By  all  means.  Here,  take  your  bracelet. 
[He  gives  it  to  her.]  But  you  don't  leave  this  house — 
you  understand  that  ?    /  am  master  here. 

[Miss  Farren  goes  quietly. 

Judge.  Now  just  listen  to  me,  both  of  you.  Be 
calm — all  this  excitement  won't  helji.  Harvey,  you 
too.     You  and  Alice  will  have  your  explanation 

Mrs.  Western.  If  the  girl  doesn't  go  to-night 


Harvey.  I  tell  you  again  she  shall  not !  And 
there's  no  need.  I  was  a  fool  to  give  her  that  brace- 
let— she  didn't  want  to  take  it 

Mrs.  Banket.  Why  did  you  ? 

Har\^y.  I  had  given  Alice  one  on  her  birthday. 

Mrs.  Western.  Well  ? 

Harvey.  And  so  I  got  her  one. 

Mrs.  Western.  W^hy  ? 

Harvey.  Because [ffe  stops,  very  embarrassed.] 

Mrs.  Western.  Well  ? 

Harvey.  Because — oh,  because — well,  she  admired 
it — and  she  liked  pretty  things  too.   .  .  . 

Mrs.  Western.  I  don't  think  you  need  say  anything 
more. 

Mrs.  Banket.  No.    He  needn't.   It's  clear  enough  ! 

Haevey.  [Eagerly.]  Look  here,  on  my  honour — I 


THE  BRACELET  121 

am  fond  of  her,  of  course,  in  a  way — but  I'm  old 
enough  to  be  her  father — and  I  swear  to  you  all — 
I've  seen  her  about,  of  course,  a  good  deal — and  I 
gave  her  that  thing — but  beyond  that,  nothing, 
nothing ! 

Mrs.  Western.  [Sitting,  and  with  a  shrug  of  the 
shoulder.]  A  ridiculous  fairy  tale  ! 

JuDQB.  My  dear  Alice,  take  my  advice,  and  believe 
your  husband. 

Mrs.  Western.  You  too  ! 

Mrs.  Banket.  All  alike,  when  there's  a  pretty 
face ! 

Judge.  Let  her  find  another  situation,  by  all 
means.  .  .  .  But  to  turn  a  girl  out,  at  a  moment's 
notice  !     You  couldn't. 

Mrs.  Western.  [Turning  to  the  Judge.]  You  are 
really  suggesting  that  I  should  sleep  under  the  same 
roof  with 

Judge.  [Almost  sternly.']  You  are  condemning, 
without  the  slightest  evidence.  And  condemning, 
remember,  an  utterly  defenceless  creature.  This  girl 
has  a  claim  on  you :  were  your  suspicions  justified, 
she  would  still  have  a  claim. 

Mrs.  Western.  Indeed ! 

Mrs.  Banket.  The  nonsense  he  talks  !  It's  really 
too  silly  ! 

Judge.  You  are  extraordinary,  you  women  !  You 
exact  such  rigid  morality  from  the  governess  and  the 
housemaid !  You're  full  of  excuses  when  it's  one  of 
yourselves ! 


122  THE  BRACELET 

Mks.  Eanket.   [Indignantly/.]  Tom  ! 

Judge.  Well,  that's  true — we  all  know  it!  And 
here — I  believe  every  word  Harvey  has  said. 

Mrs.  Western.  [Scarcely  believing  her  ears.]  You 
do! 

Judge.  Because  he  is  a  man  of  honour,  and  men 
of  honour  have  their  code.  Their  children's  gover- 
ness ...  is  safe.  You  will  do  well  to  believe  it,  too. 
Now,  Fanny,  we'll  go.  Be  sensible,  Alice — I  tell  you 
again,  Harvey's  right;  the  girl  must  not  be — sum- 
marily dismissed  :  it  would  be  an  act  of  cruel  injus- 
tice. Good-bye.  [Re  off ers  to  kiss  her — she  turns  away.] 
As  you  like.     Good-bye,  Harvey,  old  man. 

Harvey.  Good-bye,  Tom.  [They  shake  hands.]  And 
thank  you. 

Mrs.  Banket.  [Kissing  Mrs.  Western.]  My  poor, 
dear  Alice ! 

Mrs.  Western.  Good-bye,  Fanny.  I'm  sorry  that 
our  party  to-night 

Mrs.  Banket.  Oh,  that  doesn't  matter !  Poor 
thing !  I  promise  you  that  Tom  shall  have  a  good 
talking  to ! 

[She  is  too  angry  with  Harvey  to  say  good-bye 
to  him  :  she  and  the  Judge  go.  The  moment 
the  door  closes,  Harvey  begins,  feverishly 
and  passionately. 

Harvey.  Now  just  listen.  I'm  going  to  speak  to 
you — I'm  going  to  say  things — things  that  have  been 
in  my  heart,  in  my  life,  for  years,     I'm  not  going  to 


THE  BRACELET  123 

spare  you.     I'm  going  to  tell  you  the  truth,  and  the 
truth,  and  the  truth  ! 

Mrs.  Western.  \Calmly,  looking  ironically/  at  him.] 
If  it's  the  same  kind  of  truth  you've  been  giving  us 

to-night 

Harvey.  "We've  been  married  ten  years.  Oh,  I 
know,  we  were  neither  of  us  very  young.  But  any- 
how the  last  five  have  been  nothing  but  misery  for 
me.     Mi.sery — do  you  hear  that  ?     You  sitting  there, 

calm  and  collected — not  caring  one  dnmn  for  me 

Mrs.  Western.  [Quietly.]  That's  not  true. 
Harvey.  It  is,  and  you  know  it.     The  mother  of 
my  children  !     Satisfied  with  that.     Never  a  word  of 
kindness,  or  sympathy.     And  as  for — afiection  ! 

Mrs.  Western.  We're  not  sweethearts — we'ra 
middle-aged  people. 

Harvey.  Well,  I  need  something  more.  And,  look 
here,  I'll  tell  you.  This  girl  has  made  life  worth 
living.  That's  ail.  I'd  come  home  at  night  dog-tired, 
all  day  in  the  City — sick  of  it,  Stock  Exchange,  ofiice, 
and  the  mud  and  the  grime  and  the  worry — there 
were  you,  with  a  nod,  ah,  Harvey,  good  evening — 
and  you'd  scarcely  look  up  from  your  Committee 
Report  or  your  Blue-book,  or  damned  pamphlet  or 

other 

Mrs.  Western,  [Contemptuoitsli/.]  You  are  one  of 
the  men  who  want  their  wife  to  be  a  mere  sort  of 
doll. 

Harvey,  [More  and  moi'e  vehemently.]  I  want  my 
wife  to  care  for  me  I     I  want  her  to  smile  when  I 


124  THE  BRACELET 

come  in,  and  be  glad — I  want  her  to  love  me !  You 
don't!  By  the  Lord,  I've  sneaked  upstairs,  gone  in 
and  had  a  peep  at  the  children — well,  they'd  be  asleep. 
I  tell  you  I've  been  hungry,  hungry,  for  a  word,  for  a 
look !  And  there,  in  the  schoolroom,  was  this  girl. 
I've  played  it  low  down,  I  know — she's  fond  of  me. 
But  I  couldn't  help  it — I  was  lonely — that's  what  it 
was.  I've  gone  up  there  night  after  night.  You 
didn't  know  where  I  was — and  you  didn't  care.  In 
my  study,  you  thought — the  cold,  chilly  box  that  you 
call  my  study — glad  to  have  me  out  of  the  way. 
"Well,  there  I  was,  with  this  girl.  It  was  something 
to  look  forward  to,  in  the  cab,  coming  home.  It  was 
something  to  catch  hold  of,  when  things  went  wrong, 
in  that  dreary  grind  of  money-making.  Her  eyes  lit 
up  when  they  saw  me.  She'd  ask  me  about  things — 
if  I  coughed,  she'd  fuss  me — she  had  pretty  ways,  and 
was  pleased,  oh,  pleased  beyond   words,  if  I  brought 

her  home  something 

Mrs.  Western.  So  this  isn't  the  first  time  1 
Harvey.  [With  a  snarl.]  No,  of  course  not!  She 
admired  that  bracelet  of  yours — by  Jove,  I  said  to 
myself,  I'll  get  her  one  like  it !  Whatever  I  brought 
home  to  you  you'd  scarcely  say  thank  you — and  usvially 
it  went  into  the  drawer — I'd  such  shocking  bad  taste  ! 
Shed  beam  !  Well,  as  ill-luck  would  have  it, you  took 
a  fancy  to  this  one.     I  told   her  she  mustn't   wear 

hers 

Mrs.  Western.  [Calmly  and  cuttingly.]  Conspiring 
behind  my  back. 


THE  BRACELET  125 

Harvey.  [Eaffinr/.]  Oh,  if  you  knew  what  has  gone 
on  behind  your  back  !  Not  when  I  was  with  her — 
when  I  was  alone  !  The  things  I've  said  about  you — 
to  myself !  When  I  thought  of  this  miserable  life 
that  had  to  be  dragged  on  here,  thought  of  your 
superior  smile,  your  damnable  cruelty 

Mrs.  Western.  [Gemiinely  su7-prised.]  Cruelty ! 
Why? 

Harvey.  What  else?  I'd  go  up  to  you  timidly 
— bah,  why  talk  of  it  ?  To  you  I've  been  the  machine 
that  made  money — money  to  pay  for  the  house,  and 
the  car,  and  the  dressmakers'  bills — a  machine  that 
had  to  be  fed — and  when  you'd  done  that,  you'd  done 
all.     Well,  there  was  this  girl 

Mrs.  Western.  You  had  your  children. 

Harvey,  A  boy  of  seven  and  a  girl  of  five — in  bed 
when  I  came  home — and  your  children  much  more 
than  mine — I'm  a  stranger  to  them  !  And  anyhow, 
I  wanted  something  more — something  human,  alive — 
that  only  a  woman  can  give.  And  she  gave  it. 
Nothing  between  us,  I  swear — but  just  that.  As 
Tom  says,  I've  not  been  such  a  cur — and  you  ought 
to  know  me  well  enough,  after  all  these  years  1  .  .  . 
But  there  is  the  truth — she's  fond  of  me ;  she  is,  it's 
a  fact.  And  I  needed  that  fondness — it  has  kept  me 
going.  And  now — do  you  think  I'll  let  her  be  thrust 
out  into  the  street  ? 

[As  he  says  these  last  words  he  drops  info  a 
chair,  facing  her,  and  looks  fiercely  and 
doggedly  at  her. 


1S6  THE  BRACELET 

Mrs.  Western.  [Calmly.]  Stop  now,  and  listen  tc 
me.  I've  let  you  rattle  on.  Will  you  hear  me  for 
one  moment  ? 

Harvey.  Go  on. 

Mrs.  Western.  All  those  things  you've  said  about 
me — [With  a  shrug.]  Well,  what's  the  use?  I  sup- 
pose we're  like  most  married  people  when  they  come 
to  our  age.  I've  interests  of  my  own,  that  don't 
appeal  to  you 

Harvey.  Blue-books  and  Committees ! 

Mrs.  Western.  I  do  useful  work — oh  yes,  you  may 
sneer — you  always  have  sneered  !  If  a  woman  tries 
to  do  something  sensible  with  her  life,  instead  of 
cuddling  and  kissing  you  all  day,  she's  cold  and  cruel. 
We've  drifted  apart — well,  your  fault  as  much  as 
mine.  More,  perhaps — but  it's  no  good  going  into 
that — no  good  making  reproaches.  That's  how  things 
are — we  must  make  the  best  of  them.  Wait,  let  me 
finish.  About  this  girl.  Granted  that  what  you  say 
is  true — and  I'm  inclined  to  believe  it 

Harvey.  [Genuinely  grateful.]  At  least  thank  you 
for  that ! 

Mrs.  Western.  Or  at  any  rate  it's  better  policy  to 
believe  it,  for  every  one's  sake 

Harvey.  [Bitterly.]  That's  right — that's  more  like 
you ! 

Mrs.  Western.  We  gain  nothing  by  abusing  each 
other.  And  I  didn't  interrupt  you.  Let's  look  facts 
in  the  face.     Here  we  are,  we  two — tied. 

Harvey.  [With  a  groan.]  Yes. 


THE  BRACELET  127 

Mrs.  Western.  With  our  two  children.  If  it 
weren't  for  them.  .  .  .  Well,  we've  got  to  remain 
together.  Now  there's  this  girl.  It's  quite  evident, 
after  what  you've  said,  that  she  can't  stop  here 

Harvey.  \Jum2nng  to  his  feet.]  She  shall ! 

Mrs.  Western.  [Fretfully.]  Oh,  do  be  a  man, 
and  drop  this  mawkish  sentiment !  You  say  she's 
fond  of  you — you've  made  her  fond  of  you.  Was 
this  a  very  pretty  thing — for  a  man  of  your  age 
to  do? 

Harvet.  [Sullenly,  as  he  drops  hack  into  his  chair."] 
Never  mind  my  age. 

Mrs.  Western.  Very  well  then — for  a  married 
man? 

Harvey.  An  unhappy  man. 

Mrs.  Western.  Even  granting  that — though  if 
you're  unhappy  it*s  your  own  fault — I've  always  been 
urging  you  to  go  on  the  County  Council — What's  to 
become  of  the  girl,  if  she  stops  here  ? 

Harvey.  [Desperately.]  I  don't  know — but  I  can't 
let  her  go — I  tell  you  I  can't ! 

Mrs.  Western.  [Scarcely  able  to  conceal  her  disgust.] 
Oh,  if  you  knew  how  painful  it  is  to  hear  you  whining 
like  this !  It's  pitiable,  really !  In  the  girl's  own 
^terest — how  can  she  stop  ? 

Harvey.  She  must.  I  can't  let  her  be  turned  out. 
It  would  break  her  heart. 

Mrs.  Western.  [Turning  right  round,  and  staring 
at  him.]  What? 

Harvey.  IDoggedly.]  Yes«^it  would.      She's  very 


128  THE  BRACELET 

fond  of  me,  that's  the  truth.  I  know  that  I've  been 
to  blame — but  it's  too  late  for  that  now.  She's 
romantic,  of  course — what  you'd  call  sentimental.  I 
dare  say  I've  played  on  her  feelings — she  saw  I  was 
lonely.  She  has  a  side  that  you've  never  suspected — 
a  tender,  sensitive  side — she  has  ideals.  .  .  .  Well, 
do  you  realise  what  it  would  mean,  with  a  girl  like 
that  ?  No  one  knows  her  as  I  do.  J'm  quite  startled 
sometimes,  to  find  how  fond  she  is  of  me.  Oh,  have 
some  sympathy  I  It's  difficult,  I  know — it's  terribly 
difficult.  But  she  loves  me — that's  the  truth — and  a 
young  girl's  love — why,  she  might  throw  herself  into 
the  river !  Oh  yes,  you  smile — but  she  might !  What 
do  you  know  of  life,  with  your  Blue-books  ?  Anyhow, 
I  daren't  risk  it.  By-and-by — there's  no  hurry,  is 
there  ?  And  I  put  it  to  you — be  merciful !  You're 
not  the  ordinary  woman — you  have  a  brain — you're 
not  conventional.  Don't  act  like  the  others.  Don't 
drive  this  girl  out  of  the  house.  It  would  end  in 
tragedy.     Believe  it ! 

Mrs.  Western.  You  can't  really  expect  me  to  keep 
a  girl  here,  as  governess  to  my  children,  who,  as  you 
say,  is  in  love  with  you. 

Harvey.  [Pleading.']  I  expect  you — I'm  asking 
you — to  help  her — and  me. 

Mrs.  Western.  [Shaking  her  head.]  That's  too 
much.  We  won't  turn  her  out  to-night — I'll  give 
her  a  reference,  and  all  that 

Harvey.  [Sj/ringing  to  his  feet  again.]  Alice,  I  can't 
let  her  go ! 


THE  BRACELET  129 

Mrs.  Western.    [Conciliatorili/.]    Ask   Tom,   ask 

any  one 

Harvey.  [More  and  more  2}Cissionatelj/.]  I  tell  you, 
I  can't  let  her  go  ! 

Mrs.   Westetin.  Be  sensible,    Harvey — you   must 

realise  yourself  there's  no  alternative 

Harvey.  [With  a  violent  and  uncontrollable  out- 
hurst.]  I  vow  and  declare  to  you — if  she  goes,  I  go 
too  !     And  the  consequences  will  be  on  your  head ! 

[Mrs.  Western  has  also  risen — they  stand  face 
to  face,  looking  at  each  other — and  for  a 
moment  there  is  silence.  The  door  opens, 
and  Miss  Farren  comes  in,  dressed  as 
before.  She  walks  straight  to  Mrs. 
Western. 
Miss  Farren.  Mrs.  Western,  my  things  are  packed, 

and  on  the  cab 

Harvey.  [Wildly.']  My  poor  child,  you're  ?ioi  to  go 
— I  told  you  ! 

Miss  Farren.  [With  a  demure  glance  at  him,  stop- 
ping him  as  he  is  moving  towards  her.]  Of  course  I  must 
— I  can't  stay  here — that's  not  possible.  My  sister  will 
take  me  in  for  to-night. 

Mrs.  Western.    Miss   Farren,    my   husband    has 

explained  to  me — I  withdraw  all 

Miss  Farren.  [Carelessly.']  Oh,  that's  all  right — 
though  thank  you  all  the  same.  And  it  really  doesn't 
matter  much.     I  was  going  to  give  notice  to-morrow 

anyway 

Harvey.  [Starting  violently,]  What ! 


130  THE  BRACELET 

Miss  Farren.  Well,  I  put  it  off  as  long  as  I  could, 
Mr.  Western,  because  .  .  .  But  the  fact  is  I'm  going 
on  the  stage — musical  comedy 

Harvey.  [Breathless,  staggering  back.]  You — aie — 
going 

Miss  Farren.  I've  accepted  an  engagement — oh, 
I'm  only  to  be  a  show-girl  at  first — but  they  believe  I'll 
do  well.  They've  been  wanting  me  some  time.  And 
my  Jlance  has  persuaded  me. 

Harvey.  [Collapsing  utterly,  dropping  into  the  chair 
by  the  fire.]    Your 

Miss  Farren.  [Graveh/.']  My  fiance — yes.  He's  one 
of  the  comic  men  there. 

Mrs.  Western.  [  ]Vho  has  been  watching  them  both 
with  an  unmoved  face.]  I'll  write  a  cheque  for  your 
salary.  Miss  Farren. 

[She  goes  to  the  desk  at  back. 

Miss  Farren.  [Coquettishly,  to  Harvey.]  I  ought 
to  have  told  you,  I  know,  Mr,  Western.  But  it  wae 
so  dull  here — and  you've  been  most  awfully  good  to 
me.     I  can  never  be  suflSciently  grateful. 

Harvey.  [With  difficulty,  his  face  turned  away.^ 
Don't  mention  it.     And  I  hope  you'll  be  happy. 

Miss  Farren.  [Lightly.]  Thank  you.  I  mean  to 
tryl 

[Mrs.  Western  returns  with  a  cheque  which 
she  hands  to  Miss  Farren. 

Mrs.  Western.  Here,  Miss  Farren. 

Miss  Farren.  [Putting  it  into  h&i-  bag.]  Thank  you 
so  much.     Good-bye. 


THE  BRACELET  131 

Mrs.  Western.  If  you  should  ever  need  a  refer- 

ence,  don't  be  afraid  to 

Miss  Farren.  Oh,  thanks,  no  more  governessing 
for  me.     Good-bye ! 

[She  trips  out,  without  another  glance  at 
Harvey,  who  sits  huddled  hy  the  fire.  Mrs. 
Western  moves  slowly  to  the  door.  At 
the  threshold  she  pauses,  turns,  annd  looks 
at  Harvey. 
Mrs.  Western.  I'll  take  care  that  the  next  gover- 
ness— shall  be  quite  as  pretty  as  this  one,  Harvey. 

[She    opens    the    door   and    goes.       HIarvey 
doesn't  stir. 


THB   CURTAIN    FALLS 


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